The Dancing in the Dark Affair
by MLaw
Summary: Given guarantees, Illya accepts a misson to the USSR, helping the CIA move a defector from the city of Gorky. There he meets with unexpected complications. Holocaust references.  Sequel to 'The Sins of Our Fathers Affair."     # 20 in the Saga- series AU
1. Chapter 1

"_**A man cannot free himself from the past more easily than he can from his body"**_

_~André Maurois_

_._

"**The Dancing in the Dark Affair"**

.

"Perché devo sempre fare la parta del gondoliere_why do I always have to play the part of the gondolier?" he spoke out loud in Italian."Tu séi quello che è di originne Itlaiana, perché nonè vero_ you are the one of Italian extraction, why not you?"

"That's because you're skinny enough to look good in black and white horizontal stripes, they don't exactly compliment my manly figure and umm ...let's see you can sing, I can't, and mostly because I'm your boss," spoke his partner's voice in his earpiece. "Don't forget you owe me, last time I ended up in a Venice canal after you capsized the boat and I came down with a case of pneumonia."

"Mea culpa... Ci dispiace ma ricordo al momento ci si spara_my mistake... but as I recall at the time we were being shot at?"

"Hey you Giuseppe, we ain't paying you to talk to yourself!" The male half of a rather rotund American couple called out, testing the Russian's patience. They had engaged the services of his gondola even though he had insisted he was off duty, but he decided it was better to just let them board rather than make a public spectacle that would draw unwanted attention.

"And how about a song, my missus wants to hear one. Ain't you fellers supposed to serenade your passengers?"

Kuryakin rolled his eyes as he heard Solo laughing at his predicament, then he began a rather quiet version of _O Sole Mio_, ignoring the wise cracks that were now coming through his earpiece, insulting his singing as well as his accent. He finished the first verse then began the chorus, all the while keeping a watchful eye on the building on the far side of the canal where their target had entered.

"_Ma n'atu sole cchiù bello, oje ne´_but another sun that's brighter still_

_O sole mio sta 'n fronte a te_It's my own sun, that's in your face_

_Il SOLO MIO sguardo è nel vostro viso_look MY SOLO, it's in your face!"_

Illya suddenly began changing the words to the song not missing a beat, but now sang with a bit of urgency in his voice.

"_Guardare l'deifico, c' è un uomo lì___look at the building, there's a man._

_lui ha una pistolo, e lui corre ora_ he has a gun, and he's running now!"_

Illya quickly navigated the gracefully arched gondola to a set of stairs leading up to the sidewalks that lined walls of the canal, throwing a mooring line on a red and while striped pylon as he hopped from the boat to the steps.

"Hey you we paid for a full tour, where the hell you going!" The gelatinous man shouted at him.

Illya stopped, tossing their money back to them, bowing his head then tipping his straw hat apologetically before dropping it into the gondola.

"Whats a matta you?," he said in broken English ."it's a mantatory Union a breaka!" Then he turned, taking off in the direction in which he'd seen his partner head out.

Illya ran at top speed, rounding a corner on one leg, teetering to keep himself from falling over. He had drawn his weapon from beneath his shirt, keeping it drawn but held discreetly close to his thigh as he sped after Napoleon, bounding up the stairs to a small bridge that crossed the canal beside the Church of San Barnaba to the plaza in front of the single nave church of the same name.

He took the eleven steps down from the terracotta and white stone bridge to the campo in three strides, still in hot pursuit of his partner and their quarry.

Illya stopped, looking for Solo as he had suddenly lost sight of both him and their target, the one carrying the microfilm, when he saw a small crowd beginning to gather in the plaza in front of the Italian gothic Chiesa di San Barnaba, it's neo-classical facade looming down over them like a somber greying mother.

As he approached the crowd, the Russian realized that Napoleon was laying on the ground with a gorgeous dark-haired brunette woman sitting on top of him, screaming at him at the top of her lungs. She was calling him among other names, the equivalent of a "masher" in Italian.

Solo had his arms raised, covering his face, doing nothing more than fending off her pounding him with her purse.

"La signorina mi può spiegare, quindi PER FAVORE smettere di picchaiare me_ Miss I can explain so PLEASE stop hitting me!" He called to her.

lllya seeing Napoleon's quandary laughed under his breath for a moment before trying to intervene, then reaching down; he pulled the woman up and away from his harried partner. Suddenly the woman grabbed him by the red kerchief tied around this throat then proceeded to slap him wildly on the head before he grabbed her by the wrists, holding her tightly at bay.

"Please madam, control yourself! " He growled at her in Italian, " I am sure this is all just a misunderstanding?"

Napoleon picked himself up, brushing off his clothes then discovered the shoulder of his suit jacket was torn; sighing as he could picture Waverly's face when eyeing the expense report for yet another ruined suit.

At that moment armed members of the Carabiniere with their trademark white diagonal leather sashes across their chests and huge gold motifs on their hats appeared beside them.

Illya released her immediately, taking a step back from her with his hands raised slightly in front of him.

"Arrest him officer!" the woman cried out pointing at Napoleon. " and his friend too! They're in this together, manhandling a poor girl like myself! That one with the dark hair he ...he assaulted me! He grabbed my breasts! And his friend grabbed me and held me by my wrists! My name is Cinzia Anzalone and I want to press charges!"

Illya gave Napoleon that _what did you do now _look before covering his eyes with his hand and a shake of his head.

"Officer," Napoleon explained in Italian, " I ran into the lovely signorina by accident, I put my hands up as an automatic response when trying to stop myself from colliding with her. I was trying not to knock her over. Please if could just show you my identification."

"Alto!" the policeman shouted as Solo went to reach for his wallet in his inside breast pocket. The Carabiniere reached inside his jacket, removing the Walther. Suddenly weapons were cocked and aimed at both he and Illya.

Kuryakin was searched and his weapons confiscated as well. The policeman's eyes opening wider as they found his Walther, two throwing knives, his backup pistol strapped to his ankle, explosive putty and fuses.

Once the search was concluded, their hands were pulled from atop their heads and were handcuffed and then they were unceremoniously hauled off to jail.

Thirty minutes later they sat in the dingy jail cell together not saying a word until Illya finally broke the silence.

"Well, I think it should be you that calls the Old Man and not myself," he said holding up his communicator. The police had allowed the agents to keep them, thinking they were nothing more than pens.

"And just why is that?" Napoleon answered with just a tinge of sarcasm in his voice.

"Hey you groped her not I, and you let the target get away with the microfilm.

Solo growled. "It was an accident, and where were you by the way?"

"I was right behind you."

"Sure sure, that's what they all say?" A voice familiar to Solos spoke from the other side of the bars.

"Hannibal?"

"The one and only. I heard it on the grapevine about your little predicament and thought I'd come down to spring my big brother."

Illya cleared his throat, reminding his partner of his presence while he eyed the man on the other side of the bars. He had the same dark hair, cleft chin and Solo profile, but the eyes were different, they did not have the same look as Napoleon's. There was no spark in this man's eyes as Napoleon had in his, no twinkle that indicated a love of life and a sense of humor. This man's eyes were cold and brooding.

"Hannibal this is Illya Kuryakin, my partner. Illya, this is my brother Hannibal Artarius Solo."

"Oh so _you're_ the Russian."'

"Hannibal?" Napoleon chided him for his tone of voice.

"Ah so _you _are the brother and Da, yarusskii. U vas yest' problemy etim?" Kuryakin challenged in a menacing tone, asking if Hannibal had some sort of problem with him being Russian.

"Illya!"

"Beh io non parlo Communista." Hannibal sneered in Italian, "and I don't speak Russian either."

"E'una vergogna, io parlo Italiano_ It is a shame I _do_ speak Italian." Illya bristled, taking an instant dislike to the man.

"Knock it off you two, enough with the testosterone display," Napoleon said, " so Hannibal you getting us out of here or what?"

"You brother dear I can because you're an American citizen, your partner here though is a Soviet citizen so I'm afraid his card carrying comrades will have to help him out, unless your boss Alexander Waverly comes to the rescue?"

"Hannibal, you're starting to sound just like Dad."

"Something wrong with that?"

"If you condone bigotry then I suppose not? So you know what brother of mine, buzz off. I'll take my chances with my partner and my organization getting us out of here."

Napoleon crossed his arms in front of his chest, sticking out his chin with pride at his decision. He was sure that Waverly was already aware of their situation, even though they hadn't contacted him yet; knowing the Old Man he was probably annoyed at them having made the mistake of losing the microfilm and was letting them stew in jail as penance for their sin of failure.

"Culpum," the Latin verb for mistake popped into his head, prompted by by Illya having used Mea culpa earlier that day he supposed. He went right into the conjugation, thinking _mea culpa__my mistake _culpa nostrum__his mistake _culpum__our mistake... "One big mistake," he mumbled, then turned away from his brother, trying to ignore him.

"Oh for cripes sake Naps, I was only pulling your leg, you're both out of here. Can't let my brother and his friend rot in an Italian jail, Mom would never forgive me."

Napoleon sighed; his baby brother now receiving a reprieve for his seemingly rude behavior towards Illya, but as he looked at his partner he realized that the Russian might not be so quick to forgive as he could tell the man's feathers were still ruffled.

The guard came forward unlocking the door to the cell, handing both agents their weapons and wallets as the three of them walked out together.

Napoleon decided to take the two to lunch hoping a good meal might soothe the savage Russian beast and get Hannibal to relax. Perhaps he'd figure out a way to weasel his smart-ass brother into paying for it as was his fault that Illya was now crankier than usual.

He wondered if Hannibal was telling the truth when it came to his alignment with their father's attitudes...he couldn't put his finger on it, but there was something different about his kid brother.

Once released Hannibal begged off on the lunch; Napoleon supposing it was for the better as he cold sense the continued tension between Illya and Hannibal and it looked as though it was not going to subside. There was no loved lost between his father Darius Solo and his partner, so it seemed obvious now that their father's prejudices had rubbed off on Hannibal as well, much to Napoleon's disappointment.

He shrugged his indifference to it, sitting back and watching with pleasure as food assuaged his partner's foul mood. Worked like charm every time, like music to soothe the savage beast, but in Illya's case it was a fine Venetian meal and a dessert called tiramusu.

Four hours later they were on their flight out of Leondardo da Vinci-Fiumicinp airport in Rome heading back to New York with their hats in their hands, preparing themselves for further _mea culpas _to the Old Man.

Illya was back to being his usual surly self, as opposed to his extremely surly persona that had been brought on by Hannibal Solo. Napoleon was surprised that this brother had set his parnter off as it was usually the Russian's way to just dismiss and shrug off people that bothered him.

"Tovarisch, why did he tick you off so much? I've heard people say worse things to you and you've let it go like water off a ducks back. What gives?"

Illya gathered his thoughts for a moment before he spoke. "Perhaps it was because it was _your brother_, and his physical resemblance to you is uncanny. It was almost as if it were you speaking to me, even though I knew that it was not. There is something about him that I must regretfully that say I do not trust."

Napoleon was taken back by that, knowing that his partner's instincts were pretty much spot on, he found that pronouncement unsettling but decided to say nothing and like his partner so often did, he just shrugged. But deep down inside he was feeling unsure of his brother as well.

The two agents settled into their seats on their flight returning them to New York. The stewardess came by, smiling and helping the passengers buckling up their seat belts. Napoleon requested drinks for he and his partner as soon as she was able to take care of that; his handsome smile and his puppy dog look got them their drinks not long after they jet left the ground and settled into it's flight plan.

The in-flight movie was an older film, and one that made Solo smile. "Hey this will be right up your alley. _War and Peace..._you know Napoleon invading Russia," he chuckled.

"Napoleon, please that movie hardly scratched the surface of Tolstoy's classic piece of literature, I found it somewhat sophormoric, and it glorified him as being a benign invader**."**

"Well I read the book and I thought the movie did it justice."

"Did you read it in English?"

"Of course, why?"

"Well I read it in the original Russian when I was but nine years old. Trust me much of the nuances were lost in translation. You should really attempt to read it in Russian some day?"

"You read it when you were nine...that's a massive book even for a nine year old to handle."

"I found it fascinating and decided that Tolstoy was one of my favorite authors. That book I refrained from burning for warmth, though some of the lesser Russian authors did not fare as well." Illya smiled.***

"And why would I want to watch such entertainment as this when I lived in that war-torn country and would not like to be reminded of it please? I am trying to distance myself of my...place of birth as it has not been my home for a very long time. There is no one there for me and there are too many painful memories so I do not need a reminder of it all. So no thank you."

Napoleon knew that Illya was referencing his survival in the streets of Kiev and decided not to continue to jab at this partner, leaving well enough alone since it seemed to be bothersome to him. The senior agent settled in to watch the movie anyway, while Illya decided instead to listen to the prerecorded music, hoping there would be something to his liking.

The rather soothing sounds of Mantovanni were playing, though not really his taste in instrumentals, it would do to help lull him to sleep. He closed his eyes and just beginning to doze off when the music jarred him awake.

"_When the truth is found to be lies, and all the joy within you dies. Don't you want somebody to love..._" the song came blaring through the headphones, waking the Russian with a start as he pulled off them away from his ears.

"What's wrong?" Napoleon asked.

"An annoying song that came on just as I was falling asleep. Why would they put such a thing as in-flight music when most people try to sleep is beyond me," he said as he tossed the headphones aside in annoyance.

"What was it?"

"I believe it was a group called _The Jefferson Airplane, _and definitely not my taste in music."

"Well sorry but I don't think they probably have any Coltrane or Miles Davis just for you," he chuckled, returning his attention back to the film. "Oh this is the good part, see...Napoleon is on screen," he teased.

His partner crossed his arms in front of his chest, turning his head away and ignoring him as he closed his eyes again.

The stewardesses brought around their meals, the smell of which woke Illya instantly. The cabin was filled with the scent of Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes with gravy and carrots. It was a shame there never was a large enough portion to suit him, and knowing this, Napoleon got the stewardess to bring his friend a second serving as there were always extras. And ironically, dessert was a pastry called a _Napoleon._

Their return to New York found them empty handed with their heads bowed in contrition for having failed to complete a simple mission. They also bore the embarrassment of having a green section III agent from the Rome office catching up with their quarry and relieving him of the stolen microfilm. But at least it had been recovered and surely that had to soothe some of Waverly's annoyance with them.

Regardless of their failure, reports still had to be filed. Illya typed out his and had his copy done and now stood in his partner's office waiting for Napoleon who as usual was procrastinating on his paperwork.

"Please do it now, I would like to go home and cannot until the full report has been filed. We are at least lucky that Waverly does not want to de-brief us on this one, as he most certainly would ream us new ones, if you catch my drift... I am saying that correctly am I not?" Illya was feeling a bit peevish as the assignment in Venice was his return to active duty, having been duly punished by Waverly for having gone after Kiril Andropov in direct violation of his order not to do so.

For that Kuryakin had been given every possibly shit job there was in headquarters, though the worst of which was being stuck in the basement day after day reviewing and shredding out-dated paperwork going back at least five years.

Illya barely saw the light of day, except on his days off, and then he spent those in the park with his children, fending off the advances of women thinking for some reason that he was a single father, since it was normally a mother's task to take their children to the park.

If there was anything that had been a greater unintended lure than his fake marriage band that he worn for years, it was his own children, but even more so. It seemed to take forever for these women to leave him alone, but then mothers with their children playing in the park just had to attempt discussing parenting skills with him, thinking he was on his own and in need of advise. There was no peace to be had.

He was not sure where that was coming from, and wondered if they were thinking that the way he took care of his children was somehow wrong, even though he knew it wasn't. Then he supposed that tackling that poor man who had gotten too close to his daughter's carriage had been a bit over the top?

.

"Yes you actually are...my heart be still? "Napoleon's comment pulled him out of his thoughts.

"I am actually what?" Illya asked, having lost track of the conversation for a moment.

"You've finally have an understanding of American colloquialisms." He said having spoken some Russian and had a similar sort of remark tossed at him by this partner at the the end of the affair involving Kiril Andropov, not five weeks ago.**

"I have been attempting get them, as you say and my studies of American history and culture for citizenship have helped, though I wonder why I should continue doing so as it seems as though my gaining citizenship will never happen, if the C.I.A. has its way."

"C.I.A. still blocking it?" Napoleon asked, as he finally crossed the last T in his hand written report, or more correctly scrawled report, then handed it to his partner.

"I will type this up for you to expedite matters, Gina still has not gotten the knack of reading all your chicken scratch yet...I have to say I miss Janet." Illya sighed.

"Me too partner of mine but give our new secretary a chance, she'll get the hang of it." Solo answered, then reached for his receiver as the telephone rang.

"Hi Lisa. Yes he's here...I'll relay the message.' He then hung up the phone. "You're wanted in Waverly's office.

Illya rolled his eyes. "Why do I have bad feeling?" he said as he walked out the door."I wonder if I am being banished back to File 40?"

He arrived at the entrance to the Old Man's conference room within minutes and paused, straightening his tie and cuffs before entering. As the doors opened silently, he did not expect to come face to face with Bill Klein of the C.I.A. sitting at the table with Waverly and made no attempt at masking his obvious displeasure at seeing the man.

The last time he had spoken to Klein was when he had been sent on a bogus mission brokered by the man to help the Central Intelligence Agency and that resulted in major traumatic events while in the custody of the Stasi, as well as his near death at the hands of his former Soviet mentor and then KGB agent Viktor Karkoff.*

"Mr. Kuryakin, stop your bristling and come sit down please?" Waverly asked.

It had been a long time since U.N.C.L.E. had tolerated his ilk walking their halls and Kuryakin wondered why Klein's presence was being permitted again.

"I know that you are well acquainted with Mr. Klein...let us get down to brass tacks. The C.I A. has approached us regarding the defection of a Russian scientist and has asked our assistance."

"Oh and I suppose my help is being requested again? No thank you sir, I respectfully decline." Illya said with a wave of his hand as he rose from his chair.

"Sit down Mr. Kuryakin and please let me finish?"

Illya did as ordered, then Waverly flicked a switch on his control panel and a man's image appeared on the video screen.

"Mr. Klein if you would be so kind?" Waverly asked.

"This is Vasya Kvantrishvili, a scientist in the employ of the Soviet government and currently stationed within the city of Gorky. He's expressed interest though our contacts that he wishes to defect to the United States, but given the current political tensions between the Soviet and American governments our handling that defection would be very difficult at this time. Many of our operatives have been identified in the Soviet arena and can't take so much as a piss without the Kremlin knowing about it."

We need for this defection to take place as the man has vital information that will help maintain the balance of power in the arms race between the the United States and the Soviet Union."

"And that is?" Illya asked.

"Sorry, classified. And you can't be read in until you guarantee you're on board."

Illya was incredulous at what was being asked of him again, and was equally as shocked that Waverly was even permitting it. "Surely you are joking? You expect me to help you after what your people did to me?"**

"Mr. Kuryakin," said the Old Man, " I have had our intelligence division investigate this matter thoroughly and they have ascertained that it is indeed legitimate, but given your last experience with the C.I.A I completely understand your not wanting to work with them again."

Bill Keln looked directly at Illya as he spoke. "Look I know we did wasn't right and I'm sorry for it, but in the end it was a necessary evil and did take an unexpected turn which wasn't our doing. Remember, we did get you out so that has to count for something?"

"Got me out? I was the sacrificial lamb in that deal. You didn't give a damn about me, I was but a means to an end of getting your double agent in place and nothing more!" Illya raised his voice at the man. He never had the opportunity to voice his anger at Klein, and at the moment out of respect for Waverly, he was restraining himself.

"Well that agent is the one who got us the request by Dr. Kvantrishvili to make his defection. Look I know we did you wrong, so here's the deal. If you help us with this operation, then I have authorization to see to it that your request for citizenship be granted upon the completion of the mission. Just think, you'll no longer be a foreign national operating on U.S. soil and will no longer be a person of interest to the C.I.A. or any other American intelligence or law enforcement agency. And that will be put on paper as a written guarantee. You have my word on it."

That was a real kick in the stomach to the Russian. He raised his eyebrows for a moment before he spoke again. "And why can your own operatives not extract this scientist?"

"Because things are too hot for us now and the security in Gorky is tighter than a skinflints ass. We can't make a move without the KGB and GRU crawling up our own butts. However, there's a situation that the Soviet government is unaware of as of the moment and it's one we can use to our advantage and that is the fact that your brother, Kiril Andropov is dead."*

Illya Kuryakin cocked his head, his interest now having been piqued at that statement.

"And what exactly does that mean?"

"We propose for you to impersonate your late brother, who we all know was a member of the Soviet KGB."

Klein's statement made the Russian's brow furrow with concern, but that didn't stop him from wanting to hear more.

.

* ref "The Sins of Our Fathers Affair ** ref "The Gambit Affair" *** ref "Beginnings"


	2. Chapter 2

Napoleon Solo had just finished a Ju-jitsu sparring match in the gymnasium with the resident _master, _Dave Kashihara when he saw his partner walk through the doors looking rather preoccupied, perhaps more than usual.

"Illya." He called to him, but the blond kept on walking, heading straight into the locker room.

Napoleon picked up his towel, wiping the perspiration from his face as he headed off in search of his distracted friend. He found Illya half in a state of undress back by his locker as he was changing into his grey sweatsuit.

"You okay?" he asked as he peeked defensively around the locker door.

"As always I am _fine_." he snapped.

"Well, delivery of said pronouncement was with a bit of an attitude, so you going to tell me what's wrong?"

Illya sat down on the bench in front of the locker in a huff, as Napoleon figured he was going to get told to mind his own business any second now.

But instead the blond lowered his head, looking all the more upset.

"Sorry," he muttered, I did not mean to be rude to you. I just have a lot on my mind that is all."

Napoleon smiled at him. "Well sharing is caring, wanna talk about it?"

"Pa-leese, spare me your half-baked phraseology right now, and no I do not wish to talk about it. I came down here to work off some steam if you do not mind?"

"Half-baked? Nice word usage."

"Trés drole," Kuryakin answered.

"Alright then, how about I help. What do you feel like doing? Karate, judo a bit of fencing maybe?"

"I definitely feel like _hitting_...how about we put on the gloves and practice the art of pugilism?"

"You want to box?" Napoleon asked, being a bit surprised as that was not one of Illya's favorite workout choices.

"Yes, is there a problem with that? You know you do not have to spar with me as I am sure I can find a willing victim somewhere."

"Well when you put it that way, I better be the one to do it with you as you sound like you're ready to beat the crap out of someone and I can't take the risk of you putting one of our agents out of circulation. Thrush has been doing too much of that lately, thank you."

"And what makes you think I will not do it to you, " the Russian smiled slyly at this partner.

Napoleon grinned back at him. "I'll just have to take my chances then won't I?"

They went out into the gym, climbing into the ring, finding their respective corners. Sammy Konukula was there and stepped into act as referee, sensing something was up.

Four rounds later a crowd had gathered around the ring as Kuryakin and Solo were duking in out. Napoleon found out after the fact that side bets were being taken, and not in his favor, that being prompted because of the way the was Russian was acting.

Someone would've had to have been a blind man to not have seen the anger that was seething within Kuryakin. His normal cold demeanor had changed to that of a raging bull as he pounded on his partner.

The two men danced around the ring, their sweatsuits completely soaked in perspiration.

"Had enough yet?" Napoleon mumbled though his mouth guard as he moved lightly on the balls of his feet.

Illya shook his head, answering, "no," then came straight at his partner, slamming him with a series of punches.

Napoleon stepped back out of Illya's reach, remembering how fast his partner really was on his feet. It was in that instant that Illya charged him, connecting with a right uppercut, knocking him out cold.

lllya stood there for a second breathing heavily ignoring the cheers of the onlookers as he realized what he had done and then knelt down beside the still form of his friend.

"Napoleon, wake up, pazhaluista?"

Solo's eyes opened a few seconds later as Sammy and Illya pulled him up to unsteady feet.

"Do you want medical Napoleon?" Sammy asked him.

"No, no it's okay, I'll be fine." he answered groggily.

Sammy held up three fingers in front of him. "And how many do you see?"

"Five on each hand, last time I looked Sam, honestly, I'm fine."

"Napoleon, I am sorry," Illya whispered.

"I've heard that before," he laughed, knowing that his partner hadn't meant to do this to him but now he at least had some leverage to find out what was bugging him. Illya now owed him for knocking him out in the middle of what was supposed to have been a friendly workout.

Napoleon begged off Konukula's help as his manly pride wanted him be able to walk away under his own steam, but that's when he took a little wobble and Illya caught him after just having rid himself of his red boxing gloves.

He guided Napoleon to a bench in the locker room then grabbed a clean towel, filling it with ice from a nearby ice making machine. There was need of one there as testostersone-filled agents would often become over enthused with their workouts with each other. The ice helped to soothe the bruises and swellings that generally occurred and prevented a trip to the medical level...sometimes.

"Napoleon I am truly sorry, I did not mean to let myself get out of control."

"You weren't kidding when you said you had to work off some steam? So now you going to tell me what this is all about, since you now owe me." He asked, holding the icepack to his forehead.

Illya flopped down on the bench beside him, dropping his head into his hands then running them up through his wet hair, leaving is sticking up in little spikes.

"Does this have anything to do with Bill Klein being here this morning?" Napoleon asked; that question getting his partner's attention immediately.

"How do you know about that?"

"I'm CEA remember? Like you, I too have my sources." he smiled knowingly." So did that meeting put you in this foul mood, yes or no?"

"Da"

Napoleon waited for more."That's it? This is all you're going to give me?"

Illya stared up at him with his baby blues, looking like he was going to burst into tears.

"Alright take it easy tovarisch, I'm sorry I asked." He looked down at this partner's forearm, seeing the dark tattoo there that used to be guarded ferociously by him, hidden with makeup from prying eyes for years.

And now for a moment Illya sat rubbing his index finger across it, lost in his thoughts. It was only recently that he had begun to leave it uncovered, in a way uncovering his past and no longer being afraid of it being revealed. *

"Does _that_ have something to do with why your upset?"

Illya sighed deeply, finally relinquishing to his partner's probing." Yes I am afraid it does, just a little bit."

He looked at his partner with sympathetic eyes. "Come on let's get cleaned up and go for a drink and we can talk privately?"

Illya agreed, then headed off toward the showers.

A half hour later they they sat in _The Mask Club,_ a business that occupied the first and second floors of a whitestone building at the end of the block; it was a sort of _Playboy, members only-key club,_ a place that Napoleon used to frequent more in his bachelor days than his partner did. Located above the club, upstairs on the third floor were the offices of U.N.C.L.E's propaganda front, a charity fundraising organization.

The entire block was in reality was one big fortress housing the full U.N.C.L.E. complex, some of which were actual brownstone apartments, others were simply facades. There were four entrances that the employees could use, the main entrance through Del Floria's, The Mask Club, the charity organization and through the men's and women's locker rooms within the secure parking garage.

The Mask Club being secretly owned and operated by U.N.C.L.E. meant it was subject to constant sweeps for outside bugs, cameras and weapons, thus ensuring the members were free from unwanted prying ears and eyes...given the fact that some of them were not employed by the organization, it was a prudent move.

The club itself though a front was still in fact an actual business, just as was Del Florias. U.N.C.L.E. security maintained constant surveillance and agents were the only ones permitted to carry their Specials while on premise.

These outside members had to be of a sufficient financial status in order to join; some of them were leading politicians and members of New York society, and being in such close proximity to the U.N. there were a number of foreign dignitaries who frequented the club as well. It was this outside membership that helped keep a constant flow of funds into the organization's coffers.

A cocktail waitress wearing a short tight-fitting black dress as well as a black pointed sparkling mask, the trademark of the club, stepped up to the table where the two agents had seated themselves in the back corner, assuring them some modicum of privacy.

Napoleon smiled at the unfamiliar waitress' face. He used to know all the girls here, but that was a lifetime ago or so it felt like it. He eyed her up and down, smiling as he turned on the usual Solo charm.

"Hi there gorgeous, and you are?"

"Stephanie," she smiled back at him with her luscious cherry-red lips.

"Ahem." Illya cleared his throat prompting his partner.

"And what can I get for you two handsome gentlemen? she asked.

"Scotch on the rocks and a vodka, neat." Solo ordered."and we'll run a tab. Mike the bartender knows me, just tell him Napoleon."

"Coming right up...Napoleon," she winked at him.

The masked waitress returned with their drink order carried on a silver tray, placing the glasses on the table in front of them, assuming correctly which drink was for each man.

Napoleon pulled out his wallet handing her a ten dollar bill as a tip, then smiled when he noticed the cocktail napkin under his drink had the outline of cherry-red lips on it and a telephone number written in ink.

"Nice to know I still have it." He smiled, holding the napkin up for his partner to see after she walked away.

"You would be wise to destroy that evidence my friend before you forget you have it and Bella finds it in a suit pocket." Illya warned.

Napoleon clicked his tongue as he crumpled the napkin up into a ball.

"Of course I'm getting rid of it...I'm not interested in her, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy looking. I've got the greatest woman in the world waiting at home for me with our children. And hey, besides weren't you who once said to me that _just because you were married didn't mean you were dead, _right?"*

"Guilty as charged."Illya said, barely revealing a slight smile.

"Alright now enough of dodging the issue tovarisch, are you going to tell me what the hell has gotten you so worked up?"

Illya leaned forward placing a small silver box on the table, a jamming device of his own making to further prevent Security from eavesdropping on their conversation, just in case."I had a meeting with Waverly and Bill Klein and this morning."

"That mother fu..." Napoleon stopped himself, " I thought the Old Man banned him from the premises?"

"Apparently it was not a permanent prohibition."

"And...?"

"And the C.I.A. has asked me to help them with another defection...from Russian, " he whispered.

"What the hell?" Napoleon seethed." You told Klein he could put it where the sun doesn't shine, didn't you?"

Illya downed his vodka in one gulp, folded his hands in front of himself on the table then bowed his head looking like he was praying.

"Oh don't tell me you agreed, not after they nearly got you killed?"** Napoleon couldn't believe that his partner would even consider something like this.

"I did not exactly tell them yes," he hesitated, "but I did not refuse either...well actually I did at first, but that was before they made their proposal to me.

"What the hell would posses you to do that?"

"They made me an offer that was difficult to refuse."

"Good God Illya what could they have possibly dangled in front of you? How could you even be considering trusting them after the situation Klein manipulated you into?"

"He told me that they would guarantee the approval of my citizenship and would put in writing that I would be free of harassment from the CIA, FBI and any other security and law enforcement organization in the United States. They would actually honor the diplomatic immunity that we as U.N.C.L.E. agents are supposed to have. And with citizenship I would no longer be a foreign national operating on U.S. soil."

"That still doesn't guarantee they still wouldn't harass you."

"I know but it would still make me better off than I have been."

"Why do this, you'll be a citizen eventually? They can't fight it forever."

"Oh they can and will, that is they impression that I received, a somewhat non-verbal communication from Klein that if I did not cooperate, my citizenship would never be cleared by the C.I.A."

"Oh so they're blackmailing you then?" Napoleon waived to Stephanie for another round.

'Essentially yes," Illya answered.

"And how does Elliott feel about this?"

"I have not spoken to her about it yet as Klein gave me forty-eight hours to make up my mind."

Napoleon raised his brows at that little tidbit. "Are you going to even talk to her about it?"

"I have to, I cannot make such a decision on my own as I have a she and the children to consider."

"So would it be so bad not becoming a citizen? I mean, you've lived without it all these years?"

"I did not have a family to consider back then. My children are American by birth, my wife has dual citizenship and if I remain as a foreigner here and a Russian citizen, I will be subject to the whims of the C.I.A. GRU and KGB. I could in essence be deported or recalled at any time and for any reason, regardless of Waverly's connections. If I were deported back to the U.S.S.R. that would be as good as a death sentence for me. This is a position I can no longer be in for the sake of my family."

"Illya this mission could be a death sentence for you if you get caught."

"You do not think I have not considered that? I am caught now between...what is your saying, a rock and a hard place?"

"You got that right my friend."

"You do not suppose that your diplomatic connections in Canada could help me with Canadian citizenship?" Illya joked sheepishly.

Napoleon understood his partner's dilemma, though he still thought it insane to trust the C.I.A. again. "Can you tell me what this mission is about...it is after all for the C.I.A. and not an U.N.C.L.E. assignment, technically speaking that is?"

Illya had no qualms about revealing to his partner the details that he knew so far.

"To make it brief, I have been asked to go to the city of Gorky to retrieve a nuclear scientist and bring him to Finland where he will be turned over to the waiting arms of the C.I.A." He deliberately left out the detail that he was to impersonate his late brother.

"And this they can't do themselves? They've got plenty of agents crawling around Russia, I'm sure of that." Napoleon groused.

"They claim it is too hot right now, as U.S.-Soviet relations are at a near fevered pitch, leaving many of their people under too much scrutiny to complete such a task."

"Or so they say." Napoleon added, " and how do you know it's not a bunch of bullshit like last time, just a ruse or another set up?"

"Waverly took the trouble to verify the information regarding the target, the double agent that was apparently embedded at my expense was the one who forwarded request for the scientist to defect, as he is seeking asylum in the United States. And the C.I.A apparently is interested in what he as to offer about the Soviet nuclear program.

Napoleon thought for a second about Illya's tattoo from the concentration camp, wondering what that had to do with all this and asked his partner outright.

Illya's eyes seemed to glaze over for a minute. "I will no doubt be traveling in the vicinity of Kyiv...Napoleon I have not been there, been home since I was ten years old. It troubles me, the thought it holds many terrible memories for me."

He didn't know what to say to that, as only Illya really knew the details of his sufferings in the city that had been his home. He had never heard his partner use the word home when it came to his life in the Soviet Union, much less the Ukraine. He knew that he was born in the Ukraine, but his family was of Russian descent, and Illya considered himself a Russian and he also knew bits of what his partner had confessed to him; the deaths of his family members, the fact that he was a prisoner in the Sryets Concentration camp and he was near death when the Red Army rescued him. There were but a few snippets about his brutal schooling, but overall no specific details of the pain and hardships he had been put through.

He never pressed Illya for any of that, knowing that it was a hard enough just for his partner to tell him what he had. It was a great moment of trust on Illya's part to reveal what he had and it made Napoleon cringe when he imagined some of the things that Illya still kept hidden.

Solo had gone so far as to look up the concentration camp up on a data-base that was being compiled on the _Holocaust _after Illya had confessed to being there.

Sryets was one of the smallest of the Nazi death camps, but still a horrific one, as it was located next to a ravine in Kiev called Babi Yar, there nearly the entire Jewish population of the city had been executed and buried in a mass grave in just one day...thirty three thousand people along with countless numbers of other residents of the city and the people executed in mobile death vans from the nearby camp were taken there as well. The thought of such inhumanity was inconceivable, and Illya having lived through it and probably witnessed it and more.

That alone was enough to destroy the strongest of men let alone a child, yet Illya survived it all and many other horrors over the years and still managed to maintain his sanity and still be a good person. Napoleon realized that Illya Kuryakin was possibly one of the strongest men that he had ever known in his entire life. But he could see the dread in his eyes, not about the mission itself, but about gong _home._ All it represented of his past frightened him.

He was not sure what Illya had told Elliott, she being the first person he had ever shared details with about his troubled past. The idea of revisiting the nightmares that he had gone through as a young boy seemed unimaginable and to worry about being caught and executed as a traitor on top of all that...not good at all.

"You've made up your mind already haven't you?" Napoleon finally asked his now troubled friend.

"Da. Now I just have to convince my wife."

.

* ref "The Enemy from Within Affair ** ref " The Gambit Affair"


	3. Chapter 3

Illya decided it was best to speak to his wife at home rather than at headquarters. Luckily she had not gotten wind of Bill Klein being in the building or she probably would have gone after the man for having the audacity to encroach upon U.N.C.L.E. territory. As well has she had learned to curb her fierce Irish temper, there were certain things that he knew would set her off and Klein was one of them.

She had never had the satisfaction of belting Klein, as she put it when she and Napoleon went to the debrief in Waverly's office. Though Napoleon stopped her from throwing herself at the man like a raging she-wolf, he at least got his sucker punch in and decked Klein with a solid uppercut to the jaw and sent him flying on his arse, as Elliott liked to say when recounting the story.

She would have genuinely loved to have gotten her hands on the C.I.A. agent, and would have definitely inflicted more damage than Solo had.

Kuryakin harbored his own dislike of the man, but understood that these sort of things happened in the dirty little game of espionage that they all played. But that didn't mean he had to like it, or the man.

Elliott was home early in the afternoon, having finished her training seminars and demonstrations in the gym before her husband and his partner had their little boxing fiasco.

Illya avoided her all day as he knew that he was in a foul mood and was not ready to talk things over with her while he was in such a contentious frame of mine.

Napoleon was right, he had made up his mind already and would do his best to convince Elliott that his was the right decision, but he had also made up his mind as well to listen carefully to what she had to say and be fair. He would not be a stubborn bastard and be sure to let her have her say on the matter.

If she really was against it for good reasons, then he would refuse Klein's offer. Better Elliott was happy instead of Bill Klein. And if that was the way it went, then so be it.

He had tolerated the C.I.A. and other agencies tormenting him over the years so it would be nothing new. And as to the idea that he could be deported...he doubted that Waverly would let that ever happen. The idea of becoming a U.S. citizen was more so for the sake of his family, than for himself; though getting these agencies off his back would have been a nice change of pace.

Illya arrived home just after five, walking into the house, quietly slipping off his shoes and walking into the kitchen behind his wife but making just enough noise that she'd hear and not cause her to react thinking he was an intruder and try to kill him.

He stopped for a second, looking at her and her admiring her shapely bottom. She was as in as good a shape as when he first seen her in that saucy little maid's costume in Paris in spite of her having given birth to two children."*

"Illuysha ye are home early...good, dinner is just about ready so we can eat together for once."

"Smells good," he whispered as he wrapped his arm around her waist, kissing the back of her neck before he leaned forward giving the stove top a sniff." What is it Anya?"

"Something I haven't made in a long time...Irish stew."

"Mmmm smells wonderful, just like you," he laughed.

"Gee thanks?" she said sarcastically, " I've never been compared ta stew before but then again given how much ye love yer food, I guess it must really be a compliment?"

"I suppose so, considering at the moment I could eat you up," he said giving her a solid kiss on the lips."Where are the children?"

"Demmy is in his room and Lourdes is asleep in the playpen in the living room...at least I thing she's asleep, as it's been awfully quiet in there for about ten minutes."

"You haven't checked on her?"

"Of course I have ye ninny, but lately she's been just laying there being really quiet, just looking at her hands and feet and then around the room...she's thinkin' that one. I'll lay good money on that."

"And what do you think our little angel is thinking about?" Illya asked very seriously.

"Escape."

"From the playpen?"

"Oh yah! She'd been pulling herself up ta her feet, standing there holding onta the bars, pushing herself up on her toes and pulling herself up. I swear, she'll get out of there before she can walk. She's half monkey like ye are I think?"

Illya laughed heartily this time. "Yes I can see her escaping, crawling away at breakneck speeds now. We may have to use a pursuit car to catch up with her or perhaps a helicopter?"

"Be serious," Elliott said as she poked him in the stomach with the long handle of her wooden spoon." Ye just wait for her ta start walking, that child's going to be a terror! Be a darlin' and go check on her, and I'll finish up here...would ye like some biscuits as well with yer stew?"

Illya stuck his finger into the cooking pot, tasting the gravy with a look of satisfaction. "Mmmm, what do you think?" he smiled, walking backwards out of the kitchen before he turned, heading to the living room.

"I'll take that as a yes." she called after him, then mumbled to herself." I don't know why I ask...I swear that man will eat anything I put in front of him."

"Heard that!" he called back to her."And no not quite everything...remember I do not like fish broth or whale blubber and come to think of it roasted scorpions and grubs are not high on my list.

"Oh thank ye for that lovely image...now don't be schmart with me!" she laughed as he finally disappeared from her sight.

It was as Elliott predicted, Lourdes had pulled herself up to the railing of the crib and her little feet were dangling as she tried to catch them on the bars. She squealed with delight when she saw her father.

"Laaaaaalalalala! Bababababa!"

"I swear you are part monkey, my sweet, " he laughed as he picked her up into his arms." that is it...say papa, come on you are almost there. Pa-pa, pa-pa?"

"Ba bababa baba."

"Papa?"

"Ba-ba."

"Papa...pazhaluista? Skazhite, chto dlya papa_ please say it for papa?Who am I Lala? Pa-pa?"

"Pa...pa. papapapapapapa...pa-pa."

"Da! Papa! my sweet yes!" Illya laughed in delight. " Can you say it again for me...who am I?"

"Pa-pa." answered the tiny voice.

"Annushka! She called me Papa!" he yelled. "She...Lourdes said her first word!"

His wife walked into the living room grinning from ear to ear.

"Ah sure there'll be no stopping her now! Right Lala?

"Da." the baby answered, making her parents both stare at each other.

"Did she just...? Illya ask her a question."

"What is my name?"

"Pa-pa."

"And is your name Lala?"

"Da, Lalalalalalala!" Lourdes giggled.

"And who am I Lala?" Elliott asked, "Ma-ma? Can ye say Ma-ma?"

"Lalalalalalaaaaaa!"

"Ah sure so much fer that!"Elliott said.

The baby continued babbling for a moment then surprised her parents again. "Lalalala...Ma-ma. Lalalaaaa."

"Mama? Say it again, Mama?" Elliott prompted her."Who am I?

"Ma-ma."

"And what is my name?" Illya asked again, just to make sure it wasn't a fluke.

"Pa-pa."

"Oh Lord, on top of her walking soon, now we'll have a little chatterbox on our hands," Elliott laughed.

Demya walked into the room behind his parents, but his sister spotted him first. "Dem-ah!" Lourdes said as she pointed at him.

"Who is that Lala?" Illya asked.

"Dem-ah!"

"Hey Lala said my name!" Demya laughed, " Can she talk now?"

"She's trying darlin' boy." His mother smiled at him.

"Dem-ah Dem-ah! Unnnnn?" She called out to her brother, extending her arms to him.

"I think you are right Annushka?" Illya said rolling his eyes, but inside he was beaming with pride.

They fed the children first and then let Olga take them for a bit while they enjoyed their dinner together in peace and quiet. Illya placed a pair of candlesticks on the table then lit them with a match.

"Oh and what are ye angling for Kuryakin? A night out carousing with Napoleon perhaps?" Elliott asked.

"No not at all, and what makes you think I am up to something? Can a husband not want to have a romantic evening with his beautiful wife?"

She eyed at him suspiciously, not that what he was doing bothered her, romance was a good thing after all.

"I have a little surprise for you." he smiled.

"Really? I can't imagine what that would be?"

Illya handed her two tickets, concert tickets. "It is for a tour of the All-Ireland champions. I thought you would like to attend."

"They're here in New York?" Elliott was taken completely off guard.

"Yes for one night only, but in Queens."

"Oh Illuysha this is wonderful. I haven't heard good traditional music in ages." she smiled. In truth Elliott had not picked up her fiddle in a long time, not since they had moved to Washington Square and she had not found time to go near a session in any Irish bar.

"Oh that would be grand, " she sighed, "thank you my love!"

They finished eating, piling the dishes into the sink and leaving them to be taken care of later. Then headed off and drove off in Illya's green mustang heading towards the concert venue out near Breezy Point . They had a bit of a ride as it was being held at P.S. 114 in Belle Harbor out on the Rockaway peninsula.

There were at least two hundred people there, a fair amount of them from Ireland and the rest being Irish American, all there to listen to the concert being given by dozen young men and women who had competed and won in the All-Ireland Championships... competitions on various traditional instruments as well as singing and dancing held each year in Ireland as a way of preserving their heritage.

Tonight there were fiddles, harp flutes, the Irish Uilleann pipes, accordions and concertinas all creating a marvelous sound together.

Illya had developed a deep appreciation of the music from his wife's home and could see why she loved it so much, but jazz still remained his favorite style.

The musicians began with a soft lilting jig, then moved to more lively tune as a pair of curly haired girls... dancers dressing in colorfully embroidered moved out to the stage, followed by a young boy dresses simply in black trousers and a white shirt. They proceeded to dance beautiful and intricate steps to the music.

"Ah sure that's one of my favorite jigs, the lark in the morning," Elliott leaned over whispering to her husband then giving him a peck on the cheek.

As the night went on the music became faster and livelier and by the time the show was over, even Illya had to admit that he was disappointed that it had ended.

They drove back home, filled with a carefree and happy feeling from the night's entertainment, though Illya knew he had to eventually broach the subject of the mission for the C.I.A.

"I think I'd like for Demmy ta take Irish step dancing lessons...he is after all half Irish?" Elliott mused, then paused," It'd be up ta him though, I wouldn't force him inta it.

Illya mused, thinking he already knew his son's answer to that. Demya was like his father in that he was not outgoing and tended to keep to himself, more so since their return from Germany and that was nearly a half a year ago. Though Illya himself could dance and was fairly good at it, as was his mother. Demya showed little interest in it. His curiousity seemed to lie in all things mechanical.

They arrived home late and the children were asleep downstairs with Olga, so Illya still feeling lyrical from the concert turned on the the radio in the living room, adjusting the lights down low, then he pulled Elliott into his arms, slow dancing to Johnny Rivers' Tracks of my Tears. The next song was theirs...Unchained Melody and they danced together holding each other close to each other, dancing in the dark.

Elliott giggled like a school girl as he twirled her at the end of the song, giving her a long slow kiss. After several more dances, the two of them sat on the sofa, necking like two young lovers.

"Alright, she sighed coming up for air, "what ever it is ye want...fine. It's alright with me."

"You do not even want to know what it is?" he said, knowing he'd been outed. She knew him too well.

"I suppose, but what ever it is, it's okay."

"No Annushka, this one I need to talk to you about, and if you are against it, then I will not go through with it. This is your decision."

She sat up looking straight at him. "It's serious then is it?"

"Da."

"Alright, out with it," she said, turning up the living room light.

"I have been asked by the Bill Klein to help a Russian scientist defect to the United States."

"Ah that explains why that bastard was at headquarters this morning and why ye were in a foul mood," she said knowingly.

"And how do you know these things," he smiled, wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

"Ah Kuryakin, that's my secret. I have my sources," she whispered.

"So you knew Klein was there and you made no attempt to confront him? I am impressed."

"Ye know...he's just not worth the energy. I said my peace to him that day in Waverly's conference room, though I much rather would have knocked his block off. So what is making you want to take the chance helping him after what was done to ye last time?"*

Illya filled her in on the details of Klein's offer, trying to get her to understand how much it meant to him for their sake that he get his citizenship.

She huffed, then became very quiet for a minute as she thought it over.

"Ye bastard ye, I had a feeling ye were up ta something with these tickets." Elliott pace back and forth for a minute as she calmed herself before speaking any further.

"I don't like it, and I think it's too dangerous for ye ta go back home right now given the KGB has branded ye a traitor and that the U.S.-Soviet relations are very bad and besides that, there's trouble brewing there anyway with the Warsaw pact countries. Ye can't do this, 'tis too much of a dangerous mess, "her voice cracked" ye have two children ta worry about."

"Then I will not accept the mission." He cut her off."And just for your information, I bought those tickets weeks ago. Klein just made his offer, so the two events are completely unrelated."

"Sorry." She was embarrassed now on top of being concerned. "I'm sorry I cursed at ye. I understand how much the citizenship means ta ye, and since ye will be masquerading as yer brother; ye have a great cover? The Soviets don't know he's dead and would have no reason to suspect that it's ye in his place. I may regret this, but I say go fer it. That way the bastards at the C.I.A. will finally have ta leave ye alone. Ah Jay-sus, this'll be dangerous and the risks..." She began to vacillate.

"Will be acceptable. There have always been and will be risks as long as I am still in the field."

"And what about when ye are not?"

"Elliott I do not think that far into the future, I wish after all these years that you and Napoleon would remember this? A future is a luxury to a field agent, you know that. And yet we have dared to try to have a future with each other and having children. That will have to suffice, if I live long enough to think beyond the here and now."

"Don't five me that fatalistic Russian attitude Illya Nickovich. Ye have a few years left in the field, ye will be CEA after Napoleon and ye'll retire to section one! Period!"

"That my love may not hold true, as I have heard rumors that the Continental Chiefs might be considering someone else for the position of Chief Enforcement Agent in New York."

"And how do ye know this?"

"I have my sources, " he smiled at her.

"How can that be, ye are the number two agent and it's yers by right of succession isn't it? And isn't it a little soon for them ta even be thinking about it, I mean Napoleon still has plenty of time in the field."

"Waverly is not getting any younger, I think that is why it is being discussed. Nothing was ever promised or guaranteed when I came to U.N.C.L.E. I was an agent on loan from the Soviet Union and nothing more. It was and is my duty to serve our organization as they see fit, without expecting anything in return...other than a regular paycheck."

"Yes I know that damnation! Ye lived to serve the Soviet people. But when are ye going to let that go? Ye don't live to serve U.N.C.L.E...ye are not their property."

"Annushka, I have served two masters, the Soviet government and U.N.C.L.E. and now I have an opportunity to be free of that servitude and for my family to have me fully, unencumbered by the yoke that has bound me one way or another all my adult life. This is not just for me that I need to do this, but for you and our children as well."

"Ye are not beholding to the C.I.A." she snapped at him.

"Enough!"This was supposed to be a sensible conversation. He walked out of the room, trying to cool off. What should have been a simple discussion with a yes or no answer had escalated into a near argument."

He was tired of being told what to do, and in truth he no longer wished to serve any master. As long as the contract existed with the Directorate he would be a puppet one way or another. U.N.C.L.E. had treated him justly these many years, and he wished to stay with them, but it would be nice to not have a Soviet sword hanging over his head. This could be his only opportunity at gaining his freedom. Then he would truly work for U.N.C.L.E. by choice and not by circumstance.

Since he had been a child in the orphanage in Moskva and through his entire adult life he had been told where to go and what to do and to think. He had very few choices in his life, though he had been able to make a few important ones such as getting married and raising a family, but even those choices were made with U.N.C.L.E. looking over his shoulder.

Elliott and Napoleon too, needed to trust his judgement and even though he had told his wife it was her decision, that was not really true. He really wanted to do this and if the mission succeeded then all of their concerns would be resolved and if it did not succeeded, then so be it. That was the risk he and Elliott had signed up for a long time ago.

Elliott followed after him, wrapping her arms around him."I'm sorry Illuysha, ye are right, this is something that has ta be done. Go fer then, alright?"

Illya was surprised at her change of mind. "Vy ne uvereny v etot raz _you are sure this time?"

"Da ya uveren v etom_ I'm sure."

"Thank you lyubov' moy, I did not think you would be so agreeable after all that was just said." He hugged her to his chest.

"Ah sure, just because I gave ye the go ahead, doesn't mean that I like the idea of it."

"I know, neither do I."

"Yes, but we do as we must, " she muttered, anticipating his words.

"How did you know I was going to say that? He flashed her his crooked little smile.

"I have my sources." she laughed softly.

They went to bed, holding each other quietly. Then Illya kissed her... a long, lingering kiss. Their hands touched their so familiar bodies as they made love to each other slowly, very slowly. There was no sense of urgency, no frenzy, just tender patience and deep passion. Perhaps it was their fear that they both tried to bury that made their love-making so tender, so much so as if they never wanted to let go of each other.

Then as they both lay in the afterglow, Elliott fell asleep in her husband's arms, yet he lay uncharacteristically awake as he mulled things over in his head.

His children had a wonderful mother, and if he died on this mission; he knew it would hurt them but they would survive without him. Just as his own father had taught him the important things in life, he too passed some of that on to Demya and knew that he would help his sister learn right from wrong.

Better he should survive this mission of course and live to come home, but he was already resigned to what ever would be, would be. He was in the hands of destiny now, but would do his best to stay alive.

.

* ref "The Gambit Affair"

** ref "The Mind Control Affair"


	4. Chapter 4

Illya and Elliott spent the next morning with their children as neither of them needed to be at headquarters until the afternoon.

Lourdes was fed first, as it took a little more time for that operation, especially now that she was saying a few words the fact that t she was speaking them incessantly between spoonfuls of her cereal. Demya was delighted with his baby sisters limited vocabulary and egged her into repeating his name as well as Papa and Mama.

He laughed out loud as she babbled on. "lalalalalala demy demy, papamama papa mama lalala hehehheeheeee!" She burst out into uncontrollable giggles with her brother, reaching out calling his name as if reinforcing it and playing with it.

"Deeeeemy, Demy, demydemy Deeeem-ah!" she giggled again."Ma-ma, Pa-pa."

"Come on Lala say spoon? Spoooon. Eat , eat? Yum yum...yummy" Her brother said offering her a spoonful of her mushy cereal but without much success at getting her to talk, as she just wasn't ready yet.

Though Elliott thought she was trying to say the word _more_ every time she was ready for another spoonful. "Yes my little darlin' do ye want more? Mooooore?

"Ma ma ma amamama mama, ma? Ma?"

Illya smiled as he ate his own breakfast, bemused by the whole goings on. Mealtimes were definitely going to be more _interesting _from now on.

He loved the idea of his children chattering to each to each other, remembering the games that he and his sister Katiya had played at the table. Illya suddenly reached out with a spoon, scooping up some of the cereal upended it and flung it at his son, hitting him in the face with it, repeating something his sister had done to him so long ago.

Demya was momentarily shocked but did exactly as his father had done as a child, scooping the cereal from his face and licking it off his hand.* The he let out a laugh and did the same to his mother. A little food-fight of sorts ensued ending up with a disastrous mess on themselves and on the table as they laughed. Again it was Illya and Elliott's way of denying their fears.

There was a time that Illya Kuryakin would have been furious at the wasting of food, but not today. The joy that he felt with his children was worth it. And the food technically would not go to waste as Boris the cat would help at being the clean up crew.

He wanted this to be a good morning with his family, it would be his last for a long time as he knew that he would most likely have to leave quickly once he had formally accepted his mission to Russia. At this moment he would not allow himself to think that he might not survive, no that thought was not permitted. He would come back to his wife and children if not just through sheer force of will.

Once they were done with the mess that was breakfast, the children were bathed and dressed and then a short while later, Lourdes and Demya went with their parents to the park across the street.

Illya pushed Demya on the swings for a bit while Elliott held an eager and squealing Lourdes in her arms, until one of the baby swings was free. Then she joined her brother swinging happily to and fro in the air, her legs going a mile a minute.

Her father swore that if he set her down on the ground, his daughter would take off at a dead run. He laughed as he imagined that. The thought suddenly creeping into his heart that he might not ever get to see his Lala or his Demyachka grow up, but he shook that feeling from himself with determination.

They stayed a while then headed home to have lunch. Both of the children were put down for naps by Olga and together Illya and Elliott kissed their babies good bye, then left in a taxi for their appointments at headquarters. They were both very quiet, not saying a word for the duration of the trip.

They passed through Del Florias and then the dressing room entrance; receiving their badges from the the agent at the desk, each one coated with a special substance to prevent the security alarms from being triggered.

Elliott looked had her husband as he walked down the nearly empty hall beside her, then grabbed him pulling him out of view into an alcove. "Ye are sure ye want ta do this?"

"No second guessing now...I will see you before I leave, I promise ma cherie." He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then pulled her back to the corridor where they split up, She heading to her office, and he to his meeting with Waverly and Bill Klein.

Illya took a deep breath, then exhaled before entering the Old Man's office.

"Good afternoon Mr. Kuryakin," Wavely greeted him with his usual aplomb as he walked into the office. Bill Klein was seated next to him."Please be seated."

"If you do not mind sir, I prefer to stand."

"Very well, then. Have you made a decision regarding the assignment to Russia?"

"Yes sir, I agree to accept it under the conditions that the C.I.A. has indicated."

"Excellent." Klein said. "then let's get going as I need to get you down to Langley to be officially _read_ in on this."

"Not so fast," Waverly said, clearing his throat. "There is a matter of written guarantees and well as monetary funds to be signed off on."

Waverly placed a file folder on the circular conference table, giving it a spin then stopping the paperwork in front of Klein.

"I will need you to sign these documents, guaranteeing that Mr. Kuryakin will no longer be targeted by your organization and will recommend his approval for U.S. citizenship. As you can see other Federal, State and local authorities have already signed off on the agreements such as you outlined them yesterday Mr. Klein. You are also to authorize a transfer of funds to the U.N.C.L.E. account as indicated, and going forward there will be such fees for the use of our agents by any outside organization or entity such as yourselves."

"Man you didn't waste time did you? Fee, you want us to pay a fee for Kuryakin helping us?" Klein was shocked.

"That is correct Mr. Klein. Now are you authorized to do this or not, otherwise there is no deal." Waverly smiled.

"Why this is God damned blackmail." Klein snarled, dropping the folder on the table.

"Interesting, and just what were your tactics yesterday to try to cajole Mr. Kuryakin into cooperating?"

Klein exhaled heavily, then grabbed the documents and signed them.

"Now there's one thing I neglected to mention. Illya Kuryakin has to die."

"Excuse me?" Illya blurted out.

"Oh not for real. But I need U.N.C.L.E. to let the word out that Illya Kuryakin has just passed away from wounds inflicted by Kiril Andropov. That will help protect you Comrade and help your cover story appear more legitimate."

"Very well Mr. Klein, that we can do for you and as you say it will only server to protect Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly agreed.

"Alright Kuryakin, you're mine," Klein said as he signed the paperwork, then tossed the pen down as a demonstrations of his annoyance." I just paid for your rental, now you're coming with me."

"I will meet you at the security entrance within the hour Mr. Klein, as I am not officially on your time as of yet, once I leave the premises I will be. So I have a few things to do here before I join you." Illya smiled slyly.

Klein was not happy when he was met by his security escort that arrived as if on cue to see him down to the Del Floria exit.

Once he left Illya spoke to Waverly.

"Fee sir?"

"Yes Mr. Kuryakin. The Summit has determined that our agents will no longer be loaned out willy nilly to anyone who wants our help. Perhaps having to pay for the privledge will make our agent's help when given, a little more appreciated. By the way, there is also a death clause that Mr. Klein neglected to notice. Should you die while in their service, the fee they agreed upon triples. And rest assured that two-thirds extra will be given to your wife for the support of your family."

"Thank you sir that is quite reassuring. But may I ask what is the cost of my services?"

"Fifty thousand dollars." Waverly said calmly.

Illya let out a little cough when he heard the figure. "That is a sizable amount." He also realized that a hundred thousand dollars would be paid to Elliott if he were killed on this assignment.

"Commensurate with your value to the organization and as my number two agent. Going forward any of my people being loaned out to another agency will not be taken as lightly as in the past. I'll not have another repeat of East Germany." *

"It is nice to know that it will fill U.N.C.L.E.'s coffers." Illya said." But I would hope that the death clause will be unnecessary."

"Oh, and there will be a bonus for you Mr. Kuryakin, upon the successful completion of this mission. Ten percent, that you may do with as you please."

"Sir that really is not necessary. I am simply doing my job. I go where I am told and do as I am told, nothing more than my agreed upon salary is necessary."

"I thought you would say as much young man. Never the less the bonus will be yours and I'll hear no more on the matter. My agents will at least enjoy the fruits of their labors on behalf of another agency. Now dismissed young man. Do what you need to do before you leave for Virgina."

"One last thing sir...how did you know I would accept the assignment?"

"I have my sources young man," Waverly smiled knowingly as he emptied his pipe bowl into his crystal ashtray.

Illya nodded silently then walked out the door, disappearing down the long sterile grey corridor. He went first to his partner's office, finding Napoleon seated at his desk behind a stack folders.

"Tovarisch, just in time to help me?"

"Not this time my friend. I will be leaving for Virgina shortly."

"The farm?"

"Da." he answered quietly.

"I take it Elliott is okay with this."

"We discussed it and she was not happy, but agreed it is something that needs to be done."

"Well I'm not happy about it either. Is this a risk you really want to take?"

"It is no longer open for debate. I have accepted the mission, period."

His tone softened for a moment and this time Napoleon could hear a tentativeness in his voice.

"Please...if something does happen to me? Will you..."

"I will, don't worry about them, and besides you're going to come through this with flying colors like always. You have to because I won't be there to get your skinny Russian ass out of trouble this time."

"Yes understood, I will mind my P's and Q's," Illya smiled.

"Hey you're finally getting good at those aren't you?" Napoleon laughed as he reached out, offering his hand to his partner.

Illya clasped it tighly. "Thank you my friend."

It was nothing emotional. They simply said good bye, anything more would give into the fear that every agent felt when leaving for a dangerous assignment; as if acknowledging it might put a jinx on the mission for some reason. It was pure superstition, but that's the way every agent handled it, whether they believed it or not, this was simply how it was done.

Illya headed down the corridor to his wife's office, walking in as soon as the pneumatic door opened with a swish.

"Anya,"he paused" I have to go..."

"I know." she said putting two fingers to his lips, then leaned forward and kissed him. He reciprocated, wrapping his arms around her, holding her tightly. "I love you, " he whispered.

"I love ye," she answered.

"I will be on a communications black out." He warned her.

"I know."

He paused for a moment. It was their habit not to say much before leaving on an assignment."Give them extra kisses from their papa."he whispered.

"I will Illuysha."

He looked at his wristwatch. "I must go." He held his hand to her cheek one last time looking into her eyes as if he were committing the sight of them to memory, then left her.

Elliott stood, fighting back the trembling that she felt pain growing in the pit of her stomach. "A Dhia le cuidiú, lig sé sa bhaile, mas é do t'hoil é_God by your will, let him come home, please?" she prayed in Irish.

Illya went to his office, gathering a small suitcase that he kept there for last minute assignments. Then picked up a cardboard box that was sitting on his office floor. It was filled with all of Kiril's belongings that they had found at the social club, as well as some his clothes he wore that day he died at his brother's hand.

He wasn't sure why he had taken and kept them, but now was glad he had done so, as they would come in handy in his impersonation of his Kiril. In addition to his passport and identity papers, there were also several changes of clothing, plus his brother's leather jacket, shoulder holster and his personal Takarov pistol. That would all help in convincing anyone that he was indeed Kiril Nickovich Andropov.

He met an impatient Bill Klein at the reception area and escorted him outside of Del Florias, both men saying nothing.

Klein lead him to a black sedan parked a block away with a C.I.A agent leaning against the car, and another sitting behind the steering wheel.

The agent dressed in a trench coat, snapped to, opening the rear passenger door indicating Illya should get in, while Klein rode shotgun.

Illya handed the box and suitcase to the agent who locked them in the trunk, then once all of them were settled in the car, it pulled slowly into traffic to begin the two hundred thirteen mile drive, taking roughly three hours to Langley Air Force Base the home of the C.I.A. in Mc Lean Virginia.

There was nothing but silence for the first half hour of the trip until the agent sitting beside Kuryakin spoke up.

"So you're the Russkie I always hear so much about? You still a dyed in the wool Commie or what ? No that's right you can't be, or so you say because you want to be an American now don't you?"

"My former political affiliations are just that ...past and are not open for discussion." Illya retorted without emotion.

"Yeah that's right they said you were a cold fish. A real wolf in sheep's clothing, and a killer aren't you.?"

"If you are asking if I am a trained killer, then the answer is yes. I do what I must to complete my assignments but unlike what you think, I do attempt the prevent the needless loss of life where ever possible."

"Oh that's right you U.N.C.L.E. types use those tranquilizer things instead of _real _bullets."

"Yes we do, but we do have the option of using _live rounds_ when we encounter an _annoying_ target." Illya quipped.

"Don't be threatening my people Kuryakin,"Klein intervened with a warning.

"Me?" Illya said pointing at himself innocently, " why would I do that?"

"Yeah right. You'd just as soon as kill us in the blink of an eye, especially me wouldn't you." Klein snapped at him.

"I am not some mindless killer who murders anyone on a whim. When I take a life it is done so reluctantly, for a good reason and it is not for the sake of killing. I am not an animal."

"Well that's not what I heard, You did after all murder our own brother, your only living relative? That sounds pretty sick to me?" Klein said.

"He was a half-brother and not a good person. He threatened the safety and lives of my family. There was no convincing him to relent in his senseless vengeance against me, and my wife and children and if he lived, he would have tried to kill us all again and again until he succeeded. I had to make that choice, though it was a terrible one. One that no man should have to be forced into doing." That was enough to shut them up but then Illya finalized the discussion by adding, "Now if you do not mind gentleman, I plan to take a nap as it is a long ride to Langley."

With that Illya laid back his head against the seat and closed his eyes, thus ending their badgering of him for the duration of the trip.

But then he momentarily opened one eye, speaking again. "Just as a warning, I advise no one to touch me while I sleep. As you say I am killer and we are trained to act quite violently when disturbed...I would hate to injure someone by _accident?_"

.

* ref "The Gambit Affair"


	5. Chapter 5

After his warning, Illya remained undisturbed for the remainder of the trip, though he was sure they were aware that he was not asleep the entire time. It would have been imprudent for him not to at least listen in on some their conversation. But once he discovered it was to consist of nothing but talk about the results of the World Series that had taken place over seven months ago, he gave up eavesdropping. These Americans obsession with their baseball was something he could just not understand.

George Dennell once tried to get him interested in it, and he found once he understood the game, he found it mildly entertaining.• He like George and others at headquarters preferred the Yankees, and supposed once Demya was old enough, he would be derelict in his duty as a father not to take him to his first baseball game. But unlike these men in the car, he was not consumed by discussing the sport.

He was sure they suspected he was not asleep as well and kept their discussions of a more innocent nature just for that reason.

"So you realize that with the Tigers beating the St. Louis Cardinals, that this was their first championship since 1945?"

"1945? Now that was a hell of a year," said Klein. "The year the first atomic bomb was tested in Mexico."

"And don't forget, that same year used on Hiroshima and Nagasaki."

"Yep ended the big one in the Pacific."

"What else...Hitler killed himself in the bunker in Berlin." One of them said.

"That's right with the Russkies barreling down on him,"the driver laughed. "May 8th VE day, the Germans surrendered..

This direction that the conversation had taken prompted Illya's as own memory of that year_he was in the State School no. 7 in Moskva, and remembered being gathered around a radio with the other students and teachers, listening as the surrender of the German High Command was announced, thus bringing an end to the Great Patriotic War.

He remembered like it was yesterday as the announcer spoke will a clear calm voice...*

_"Eto Moskva 8 Maya, 1945_this is Moscow May 8 9145. The representatives of the German High Command signed in Berlin the Act of Unconditional Surrender of all German troops. The Great Patriotic war waged by the Soviet People against the Nazi invaders has been victoriously concluded. Germany has suffered a total defeat. Eternal glory to the heroes who fell in the battle for the freedom and independence of our Motherland. LONG LIVE THE VICTORIOUS RED ARMY AND NAVY!"_

They all erupted into a loud cheer! Some laughed, some cried, some embraced. It was a bitter sweet announcement for Illya; he was glad the Germans were defeated, but his family had been among those to pay the ultimate price and he wondered what, if any punishment they would receive for their crimes against the Russian people? Revelers spilled out into the streets and went on for months, but a "proper" victory parade was not held until June and the students were released for the day to go to Red Square to join in the celebrations even though it was pouring rain. He chose not go, instead he wandered through the city trying to retreat from the joyous crowds. He was too melancholy to join them.

That was his memory of the day, he was glad the war was over but felt nothing but his loss, and sadness. To these Americans in the car with him, it was but an historical date to quote in a conversation as VE day but to Illya it was May Day and it would be coming up soon. There would be military parades all over the Soviet Union but again it would only serve to remind him of his loss from that terrible time.

Illya put those thoughts aside and let himself finally doze off again, until a voice called him back some time later. "Wake up Kuryakin, we're here."

He straightened himself, wiping the sleep from his eyes as they approached the North entrance along E Street to Navy Hill, that he'd sometimes heard called the Potomac Annex. He already knew it was the home of the Central Intelligence Agency a place he had unwillingly become familiar with right after he first arrived in New York.

Illya was familiar with it, very familiar as he had been dragged there many times over the years, being questioned by the Agency simply because he was a Soviet National and nothing more. The paranoia they displayed never ceased to amaze him, their security was tight, but even tighter when he was there. He had his own sense of paranoia as espionage agent, but these C.I.A. people were near obsessive in their attitudes towards him even after all the help hed had given them.

They knew damn well he was loyal to U.N.C.L.E. and simply used these little sessions to remind him of his precarious position while living on U.S. soil, even though his status with U.N.C.L.E. and the charter with the United States offered him protection...it was not a full proof one. Waverly had enough pull to see to it that his agents were given immunity and protection, but sometimes he wondered how much pull the Old Man had.

The vehicle stopped just outside the open gate, with chain link fencing surrounding the compound, topped by barbed wire. To the left in front of the concrete guard house was a sign that stated pedestrians use gate 2, the at the south gate and the only other entrance to the premises. To the the right of the gate was the familiar Shield logo stating that this was indeed the home of the C.I.A.

The credentials were presented and they were cleared to proceed up along the long circular drive to the first of three buildings that comprised the headquarters known among it's members as the _Farm_. The first, a two story red brick colonial building with a white columned frontispiece was the oldest of the three and once served as the headquarters for the OSS during the war.

Behind this structure was a smaller building sitting catercorner to it, then the last and largest structure, having four stories and was more in the style of the monuments and typical government buildings that filled Washington D.C. This innocuous cluster sat in the long shadow of the Lincoln Memorial and was visually connected to the western portion of the National Mall and the Kennedy Center. And was home of the Old Naval Observatory and for that reason a national historic landmark.

But no map indicated this was the home of the C.I.A, though the address on E Street was well known as the site of the agency. One had to simply know where it was.

The car pulled up slowly to the smaller building in the center of the compound, and there they exited the vehicle. Illya's belongings were carried in by one of the accompanying agents.

"You'll have to surrender your weapons,"Klein told him before they walked inside.

"I know the drill,"Illya said flatly, " as you recall, I have been here before."

Illya stood at the security desk, proceeding to remove his Walther, several throwing knives, assorted explosive devices and lastly his .22 caliber pistol strapped to his ankle.

As the pile grew in the tray, the security guard asked," Are you sure that's it?"

"Oh?" Illya said slapping his jacket pockets, then removed a nail file and tossed that in the pile as well. Then he automatically raised his arms to be frisked. He flashed a smart-ass smile at the guard after his _patting down _was finished, giving him an _are you satisfied_ sort of look then proceeded on, following after Klein.

They took an elevator to a third floor, passing glass partitioned computer rooms and listening stations manned by agents monitoring the surveillance of countless locations and recording telephone conversations.

Then finally entered a conference room, also enclosed in glass, in the next room sat an agent at a desk with a reel to reel tape recorder, wearing a pair of headphones and reminding Illya of his first surveillance assignment in the city of Gorky as a young rookie agent for the GRU.

"Have a seat Kuryakin," Klein offered.

A pretty blond secretary come into the room with a tray of mugs and a carafes of hot coffee and water for tea, smiling at Illya as she placed a cup in front of him and pouring hot water. They knew his preference for tea over coffee of course.

"Sugar Mr. Kuryakin? She asked offering him a cup of the sweet compressed cubes.

"You would not happen to have some raspberry jam would you," he hesitated, as she looked at him strangely, "no, I suppose not."

"I'll see what I can do for you." she whispered. She'd met the Russian before and had found him attractive, though she never let that fact be known. She'd be labelled a Communist sympathizer in the blink of and eye for that, and surely lose her job.

"Alright Kuryakin let's get down to brass tacks." Klein said.

"That is, Mr. Kuryakin," Illya said, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he slipped effortlessly into his chair.

Klein huffed, "Suit yourself..._Mr._ Kuryakin." he said tossing a file to him." I need you to sign these first, the usual non-disclosure forms so I can read you in on this."

Illya looked them over carefully, making sure nothing untoward had been added that might come back to bite him later on, then finding them acceptable he signed the documents, passing them back to Klein.

"Let's get started then." Klein indicated for the agent next door to start the recording their briefing as a video screen similar to the one in Waverly's office came to life.

Illya was accustomed to being monitored and recorded every time he had to visit this building over the years and at no longer thought anything of it. Yet still, he knew to still choose his words carefully as always.

"As I indicated a Russian scientist, Dr. Vasya Kvantrishvili is currently stationed in the city of Gorky. He is at the moment involved in the Soviet Union's nuclear weapons development program and as I told you already he has indicated his desire to escape to the United States with the promise of sharing the current developments in your country's program."

"And the information he will bring to you?"

"Will help maintain the balance of power. As I'm sure you are aware there's a lot of nervousness going on within the Soviet Bloc. Word is that the Kremlin is unhappy about their failing negotiations with the newly elected leader of Czechoslovakia, Alexander Dubçek. His _liberal Prague Spring _policies are causing quite an uproar. Rumor has it that Warsaw Pact troops may move on him at any time, so I'm afraid there could be a lot happening while you're out there. Be careful Komrade not to get yourself caught up in any of their shit."

"Now we need to have him out and to the Russian-Finnish border where we'ill be waiting to receive him no later than May 11th."

Illya looked at the image of the man on the screen, then glanced at his dossier, most of which had been blacked out for security reasons. Age 43, born in the Ukraine. It was a poor photograph, but it was easy to see he was grey, balding and somewhat overweight... there was something vaguely familiar about him and he wondered if he had been one of the scientists he had done surveillance on during his first GRU assignment in Gorky years ago, though the man would have been a lot younger then.

Klein opened up a map spreading it in front of Kuryakin, tracing out the proposed route he was to take and where he would meet his C.I.A. contacts along the way who would pass instructions to him and to confirm that the operation was still viable and that he was on schedule.

"You'll cross the border in East Germany and report to the local KGB office their with the cover story explaining your absence for the last month and a half. You as Kiril Nickovich Andropov will explain that you were being pursued by U.N.C.L.E. and after assassinating Illya Kuryakin, had to go underground to keep from being killed yourself. You were unable to contact your embassy as it was under twenty-four hour surveillance. You had to avoid your outside KGB contacts as you couldn't risk exposing them.

"And when exactly am I supposed to have killed myself?"

"Right after Kuraykin and Solo returned from their mission that they _screwed_ up in Venice." Klein smiled.

Illya said nothing, but wondered how the hell they knew about that. "That is a bit thin," he then commented on Klein cover story.

"Well it's the best we could come up with, unless you're got a better idea?"

"Not at the moment."

"Well Komrade if you don't come up with any improvements before end of day, then the plan stays as is. We can't have you deviating from the time schedule as your contacts have to be in place."

"And how many will there be?"

"Four. One each in Bern, Warsaw, Moscow and lastly in Gorky."

"Your story is you escaped to Canada then boarded a freighter taking you to England while concealing your identity as U.N.C.L.E. was still pursuing you. From there you returned to Europe via another freighter to Marseilles. You avoided forms of public transport such plains and trains because U.N.C.L.E. was still searching for you. Once you actually arrive in France via our military transport, you're to travel across into the Soviet bloc through East Germany and will make yourself visible at East Berlin, Bern and Moscow in order to support the validity of your cover story and make you look like the real Andropov. Warsaw and Gorky will be the only places you need to lay low so to speak."

Illya nodded, finding it an acceptable plan.

Klein continued to point out locations along the map, "From East Berlin, you will proceed through to Bern where you'll meet your first contact...I'm sure you may have to make a few detours depend upon what the KGB instructs you to do, but guaranteed the sons of bitches will want to question and debrief you. From Bern you'll head to Poland where you meet your second contact."

"You'll more than likely have to report to the Kremlin for debrief since Andropov was missing and presumed dead and of course if they buy it all, I'm sure they'll want to give you your pat on head for being a good Commie and killing an _enemy _of the State. Your Moscow contact will have your final instructions before you leave for Gorky."

"Now once you've been initially cleared by the KGB in Berlin, depending what they and the Stasi decide, your route may deviate as they might want to keep you under surveillance. So that's where the plan gets a little dicey. Either way, you'll have to play it by ear. You'll be on silent communication, complete blackout so we won't know your status until you meet with each of your contacts. You have to make those contact, otherwise we'll consider the mission is over and you're most likely dead...or as good as dead."

"Thank you for that cheerful thought," he interrupted.

"Well we'll try to think positively on this...so once you meet your final contact in Gorky for the hand over of the scientist, then your route for Kvantrishvili out of the city will be up to you as you'll have no further contact with us until you reach the Finnish border. It's up to you how you get him to the border but you need to have him there no later than the 11th, remember _that's_ your deadline. If you're late, we won't be able to help you get across and you'll probably be trapped in Russia to face the consequences."

Illya did not like the sound of that, but his face remained placid as he listened to Klein. "So your contacts are merely there to verify that I am on schedule."

"Correct. They will not give you assistance, you are on your own. And for fifty thousand dollars you better come through." Klein warned. "Any other questions?"

"Yes, when is dinner, seeing as we have skipped lunch?" Illya smiled.

Bill Klein actually laughed at that, thinking that this Russian really was one cool customer. He looked at his watch. Kuryakin was right, it was nearly five and definitely time for some supper.

"Alright we'll break for now." Klein said, "Sanders, show Mr. Kuryakin to his room so he can freshen up and then bring him to my conference room...we'll have dinner brought up there.

Illya was taken down the hall to a guest room, smiling as it was on the same floor as the surveillance operation and assumed immediately the room had cameras, bugs and two-way mirrors installed in it.

He was shown inside, seeing that the furnishings were spartan and simple, that making him feel quite comfortable.

His suitcase had been unpacked and obviously searched and the contents laid out on the simple twin bed.

There were two night stands, and a desk with a chair, and a small television on a table against the wall, above that was a large wall mirror, and Illya stopped, looking in it he ran his fingers through his hair then waved. Knowing that probably startled the agent who was seated in the next room watching him.

He walked into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar to make them happy while he used the facilities, then washed his hands and face in the bathroom sink. He checkd the bathroom for cameras and seeing what looked like a small lens tucked in a silk planter on a shelf opposite the sink, he decided he would drape a towel over that when using the toilet and when it came time to take his shower.

Not that he cared about being under surveillance, but it was just the principle of the thing...having a bit of privacy. Once he'd finished washing up, he opened his door letting his escort know he was ready.

He was taken down to the second floor and let into Klein's office, where the man was seated at a long table. There were windows lining the far wall, offering a spectacular view of the city.

"Come on in Kury...Mr. Kuryakin." Klein corrected himself.

"I think at this moment you may call me Illya for expedience sake."

"Alright Illya, have a seat, dinner will be here in a moment."

A secretary walked in through the door rolling a serving cart in front of her with several steam trays as well as china and utensils.

She set every thing on a side board, then announced that dinner was served.

"Let's dig in Illya," Klein said, offering the Russian to go first with a wave of his hand.

Illya was never one to hesitate when it came to be offered a good meal and eyed what was laid out in front of them.

Baked Virginia ham, with applesauce glaze, sweet potatoes. cornbread dressing, fried green tomatoes, biscuits and gravy."

"Hope you like good old American cooking Komrade?"

"I like most foods Mr. Klein with few exceptions. You may not realize how well Americans eat when compared to many other countries. Your menus are much more varied thanks to your country being... how do you call it, _one big melting pot. _ My wife happens to be quite a good cook and keeps our meals quite varied at home." He felt no sense of worry talking about his home life as he was sure that the C.I.A. already had an extensive file on Elliott, an probably the children as well.

"Your wife...she cooks? No offence but I thought that little fire cracker couldn't do anything but shoot a gun...along with shooting off her mouth. She's one tough cookie if you don't mind me saying. I wish we had a few like her here on the Farm."

Illya took no offense at that. "Yes my wife at times does use quite colorful language, but has learned to curb her word usage somewhat. Her accuracy with a firearm however is quite deadly...as well as with a frying pan."

He smiled, remembering one particular fight they had that resulted in her sending a frying pan flying across the kitchen at him. If he hadn't ducked in time, she would have hit her target. Instead it made a nice hole in the wall. It was after that the two of them had a talk about her curbing her temper.

Klein didn't get the inference about the frying pan as Illya suspected he wouldn't and if he had, he said nothing acknowledging it.

"So where did you and the little woman meet?" Klein then asked.

Illya swallowed a mouthful of food, then answered. "We met when she was transferred to New York."

"You know I have to admit I was surprised that you were married, I thought that your organization didn't allow it? So how did you get by those rules, much less add children into the picture?"

Illya smiled. " It was something that Mr. Waverly came up with, apparently he felt that the organization needed to keep up with the times...my wife, we became his guinea pigs to see if it would work. It did of course and now agents are permitted to marry now on a case by case basis. Everything must still be approved by U.N.C.L.E."

"Including children?"

"No not quite, "Illya laughed.

"Interesting, you and your Missus being the prototypes that is. Must have put a lot of pressure on the two of you?"

"Yes at times it did, but we learned to deal with it, as well as the responsibilities of our jobs and have grown stronger as a family in spite of the trials we have been through."

"Yeah I heard about your son being kidnapped by that wacko Smythe. I don't know if I would have been able to do what the two of you did, mighty impressive."

"I love my son and my daughter and would do anything to protect them, even if it meant sacrificing my life. And you, Mr. Klein do you have a family?"

"Call me Bill, at least here. Yes I do," he smiled, pulling out his wallet from his trouser pocket.

He opened it, showing Illya several snapshots of fraternal twin boys. "That's Tommy the brunette and that one the blond looks just like his mother, that's Charlie. They're ten going on twenty I swear. Smart as whips the two of them. " Klein was beaming with pride.

"They are handsome boys, " Illya smiled, deciding to take out his wallet as well. He pulled a photograph, a small family portrait of him holding his daughter in one arm while other arm was wrapped around his son who was sitting in his lap."

"Their names are Demya and Lourdes Mary." He too beamed with pride.

"The boy looks just like you," Bill smiled, "and your daughter, a red head like her mother... but so tiny?"

"She was born prematurely as Owen Smythe tried to murder Elliott while she was still pregnant, necessitating a C-Section." Illya said sadly. " But she is doing wonderfully my little daughter, and is actually ahead developmentally. She said her first words only yesterday, and I am sure she is well on her way to being quite the talkative one."

"Don't tell me her first word was Mama?"

"No, Lala said Papa first."

"Lala? I thought you said her name was Lourdes, is it Russian?"

"Technically it is a Slavic word meaning _tulip_, but my son had trouble saying Lourdes for some reason, and Lala was what came out. It sort of stuck as a nick name...and technically that was her first word as she repeated it, or maybe she said it first? I am not sure which came first...like your saying the chicken or the egg but it was followed by Papa, Mama and Dema for her brother. All that in one day," He grinned.

Bill Klein put away his wallet, taking note how deeply the Russian seemed to love his children. And suddenly his view of the man softened a little bit as he saw him a proud father instead of a pinko Commie.

"I remember my boys' first word...mama. Both of them said it first, guess their Daddy wasn't around enough for them? Nothing quite as impressive as your little girl." he smiled at Kuryakin.

They finished their meal then returned to the briefing room where Illya was issued the security codes to use with his C.I.A. contacts, then given his brother's passport, ID and travel documents.

"And my brother's Tokarov?" Illya asked.

"Will be given to you upon your arrival in Europe. We'll be flying you via military transport.. Your flight departs Dulles to Marseilles early tomorrow morning. Someone will be up shortly to color your hair to match your brother's, once that's done, I suggest you get a good nights sleep. Klein said.

"Will you be joining me on the flight?" Illya asked.

"That will be a negative. Now good night Mr. Kuryakin, I'll see you in the morning." Klein said being back to all business with him.

"A small favor Bill, the signal from my communicator is being jammed. Might I have access to a telephone to speak to my wife and children tonight?" Illya asked quite civilly.

Klein smiled. "I don't see why that can't be arranged. Sanders see that a telephone is brought to Mr. Kuryakin's room and scramble that call...give the man a little privacy with his family.

He was returned to his room and locked in for the night, and pulled his wallet from his pocket again, looking at his family photograph as well as one of Elliott. He kissed them then placed them in his suitcase, removing his wedding band and St. Andrew medal. Those he put in with this wallet with the photographs. He could take nothing with him that could betray his true identity.

He would ask Klein to hold onto it all for safekeeping for when he returned from the mission. There was no need to ask, as he knew Klein would give his things to Elliott should he not make it back alive. He sighed as this was the truth of it that it had to face, but sometimes he wished he was not ever pessimist that he had been all of his life...

.

* ref "The Gambit Affair"


	6. Chapter 6

Napoleon was not happy about Illya's decision and found that it was unnerving him more than he realized. It wasn't the fact that he was going to Russia that was really bothering him; it was that he was going there _alone_, without him to watch his back.

Even though Waverly had received written assurances, Napoleon's gut was telling him that things could still go wrong when it came to the C.I.A. being involved. That made him afraid for his partner. As worried as he was now about the man, he was sure that Elliott was probably even more so.

The two had an odd way about them when shipping off for mission. Instead of talking about things, voicing their concerns; they remained silent. It was if they didn't say anything or acknowledging the their apprehensions, then nothing would happen. Not that it worked, but it was just how they chose to handle things.

Illya had told him they had come to terms with their fears and would not let it rule their lives, but to Napoleon it seemed almost impossible to deny one's fears. With that thought in mind he found himself wandering towards Elliott's office, thinking about his own wife.

Though secrecy was required Napoleon would find himself more often than not telling Bella about his upcoming assignments, leaving out the dangerous and frightening parts of course. He found that letting her know what he was up to help her cope with his being away, so their pillow talk often went off on strange tangents. When he couldn't tell her the truth about the mission, he made one up and keeping it simple so as to not trip himself up. It kept her happy.

But since Elliott was a former field agent, and a damn good one; there was no pulling the wool over her eyes when it came to assignments, that was probably the main reason why they said nothing. She and Illya both knew the risks first hand.

As he walked up to her office door he saw the light was on outside, indicating she was in conference with one of her Section III agents. She'd gotten the idea from the psychiatrist's offices in medical.

_Conference_ in this case was another word in her vocabulary for _lecture, _usually meaning an agent was performing below standard and was in need of counseling.

Elliott was the best thing that happened to Section III after she had taken over as Chief as the drop-out rate from decreased to less than five percent. That was the best it had been in over six years.

Instead of writing up junior agents as her predecessors had done, she took to having these counseling sessions, going over the agent's weaknesses and strengths point by point. Those having difficulties were assigned mentors from section II, with even some willing to come out of retirement just to keep their foot in the door by helping the next generation along. Where as mentoring a junior agent used to be viewed as a punishment, now agents looked forward to the opportunity to impart their personal experience to a potentially up and coming field operative.

She even persuaded Waverly to have senior agents to lecture at headquarters, prior to sending candidates off to Survival School and helping them to focus on their training. Elliott was definitely doing something right.

And the fact that she was no longer in the field made Illya Kuryakin a happy man, but now Napoleon wondered if Elliott was a happy woman?

The light at the door went out and a young female junior agent stepped out though the door. Tiffany, he recalled her name. She was holding a tissue to her nose, and her eyes were red and puffy. Obviously this particular _conference_ hadn't gone well.

"Knock knock," he said, holding the doors from sliding closed with his foot. Elliott looked up from her desk, closing a manila folder in front of her.

"Napoleon, come in. What can I do for ye?" she smiled.

"She looked calm enough?" he thought. "Oh just wanted to see how you're doing."

"Doing?" She repeated suspiciously.

"Mmm," he thought again, "Illya's starting to rub off on her for sure."

"You know about Illya going to Russia? They whisked him away pretty fast this morning. Didn't leave you two with much warning."

"Oh, yes," she answered, picking up a stack of folders from her in-box and straightening them nervously. "that's true, but Illuysha and I have an understanding about these sort of things."

"I know, he's told me but aren't you worried about him? I mean he's going back home where there's a death sentence on him."

"Ye don't think I _know_ that Napoleon?" she snapped."there's nothing that I can do about it. He has ta do this and has good reason for it. I may not like it, but I understand why he's doing it. I have ta believe that he'll come back ta me and I won't consider anything else. Can ye not understand that?"

In spite of what she said he could see under that tough exterior of hers she was frightened.

"Ellie it's okay to be afraid."

"No, I won't let fear control me, not any more. Fear nearly destroyed us, Illya and I and I'll not let it have sway over me any longer!" This time her voice went up in pitch. Then she suddenly let out a sob.

Napoleon grabbed her, pulling her into his arms as she began to cry.

"It's alright Ellie. I know, let it go. You're right, fear shouldn't control us, but it's okay to acknowledge it."

A few minutes later, she pushed herself from his arms, wiping the last of her tears away with a swipe of her sleeve. "He has to come back, he has to." At that moment the telephone rang.

She reached over picking up the receiver. "Mc Gowan."

"Hi Elliott, it's Lisa. I have a call from Mr. Waverly hold please?"

"Yes, Miss Mc Gowan?"

"Here sir."

"I wanted to give you a bit of information regarding your husband's current mission, though I'm sure he discussed matters with you.

"Yes sir, for once he did but in not great detail."

"Well there is an addition to the plan that's been contrived, one that I wanted to advise you of before you heard it publicly. We will be letting it be known that it was Mr. Kuryakin who was killed by Kiril Andropov and not the reverse. The word will be that U.N.C.L.E. has been in pursuit of Andropov after the murder. This is all part if the validation of his cover story."

"And when was this supposed to have happened?" Her face still paled at the mention of Illya being killed.

"When they returned from Venice."

"Then I best be acting the grieving widow just in case."

"That would be most helpful, thank you." The receiver went _click_, Waverly ending the conversation without the usual pleasantries.

"Ellie _no_?" Napoleon gasped as he saw the look on her face."he's not...?"

"No no, he's not dead. I was just filled in on part of Illya's cover story of the cover, Waverly says there's gong ta be a story leaked that Kiril...killed Illya. God that sounds creepy just ta say it? Ye do know that he's going to be impersonating his brother?"

"No, he didn't tell me that, only that he was taking an assignment that involved the C.I.A. and a defection." That was and interesting fact, but at least he was relieved as to Elliott's momentary upset. Not knowing twhat else to say to her at this point, he looked up at the clock on the wall that indicated that it was nearly six o'clock and time to go home as there really was nothing pressing that couldn't wait until tomorrow.

"Come on, I think it's time to call it a day. Why don't I drive you home and we pick up the kids and you come home with me for dinner. You and Bella can relax together, the kids can have fun with each other and I'll slave over a hot stove for seven of us?"

"Aw Napoleon," she sniffed, "thanks but I'd like ta be home, just in case he tries ta call. I had communications check and the signal from his pen is being jammed. That's not surprising, assuming he's still at Langley that is, but I'd at least hope they'd let him make a call ta his family before he leaves? That's if this is all legitimate...it unnerves me that they're got him."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes thanks."

Napoleon left her, admiring her tenacity and hoped she could hold it together for the duration of Illya's assignment. He too had his doubts, and was trusting the Old Man's and Illya's judgement on this one.

Elliott gathered up her files, locking them in a secure cabinet, as she closed up her office for the night, and then headed to the employee exit through Del Florias. She was preoccupied and absentmindedly handed her badge to Wanda.

No one but Napoleon and Waverly knew about Illya's assignment as a smiling Wanda said to say hello to Illya for her.

"Ugh yes, will do Wanda, good night."

Elliott waved to Del as she headed out the door, listening to the tinkling of the brass bell as she opened and closed the shop door.

It was still chilly as she stepped outside, thinking of the weather report she had checked for Russia. Spring had already begun there as of March 1st, but it had still been snowing and it was well into the month of April.

"Hey give you a lift lady? A familiar voice called to her from the sidewalk above.

"Ah Napoleon, ye don't quit do ye?"

"Nope, no one will ever be able to say that about me."

She relented as he offered her his arm, escorting her to his car, giving her that lift home. It was barely a fifteen minute trip when they pulled up in front of the brownstone the Kuryakins called home in the Washington Square section of Greenwich Village.

Napoleon stayed in the car, watching as she opened the wrought-iron gate and walked up the stairs to enter the vestibule. Elliott turned, giving him a little wave good bye before she disappeared inside the house.

Olga had dinner cooking on the stove, and the smell of it wafted deliciously down the hallway meeting Elliott as she stepped through the front door.

"Hallo, my dumpling!"Olga called to her, then became somewhat somber when she saw Elliott's face when she walked in the kitchen.

"Something is wrong. My Illuyshenka?"

"Olga ye amaze me some times...he's not yer son, but ye have a mother's instincts when it come ta him. He's going ta be away a while, a long assignment that came up rather suddenly, that's all."

Olga touched her hand to Elliott's cheek. "I know it's hard my dear, I understand these things. Would you like me to stay home with you?"

Remembering it was Olga's wild night out to play _Durak_, a card game popular over in Brooklyn among the older women, she declined the kind offer.

"No no Olga, please go have yer fun with the girls. I'll be fine...I have my babies ta keep me busy for the evening."

Olga kissed the children good bye then left. Elliott spooned out a bowl of Stroganoff and noodles for herself then, gave Demmy a second helping. Lala was babbling away, holding her bottle and banging it about, when the telephone rang.

Elliott picked up the receiver hoping it was her husband on the line.

.

The woman that was sent to dye and trim lllya's hair and come and gone, but he avoided looking at himself in the mirror just yet, thinking he would look when he shaved in the morning and not before.

Then an agent came into his room, carrying a plain tan telephone with him, it was one of the newer kinds, then ones with the push button keypad and plugged it into a jack in the wall beside the bed.

"Thank you," Illya said politely, but waited for the man to leave. He ducked the receiver out of sight, as he unscrewed the mouth piece and just as he had suspected the son of a bitch Klein had the phone bugged.

He was not going to say anything of importance to his family, but it was just the principle of the thing that he should have some privacy when speaking to them. The C.I.A. could trust him with this mission, but not with a phone call to his wife and children; that he found ironic.

There would have to be some fun to be had with this telephone conversation, and he quickly worked out a plan to annoy those that he was sure who listening in on him despite what Klein said.

Illya punched his home telephone number into the keypad, reminding himself the number would have to be changed when he got home from this mission, but then chuckled to himself. The C.I.A could get any of that information at any time.

It rang only once, then he heard his wife's voice answer.

"Dia dhuit lyubov moy, Annushka conas atá tú...a ora? An duigeann tú_Hello my love, how are you now, do you understand? Illya had just spoken to her in three different languages.

"Tuigim anois a stór_I understand dear. "She answered knowing their conversation was being monitored and spoke to him in Irish at first. That would have their translators scrambling as it wasn't exactly a well known language. "An bhfuil tú in orde_ are you alrght?" she asked in Irish, then added Dutch."

"Beolgeum, joh-eun_fine, good." he said in Korean, then realizing that was the standard agent's answer given regardless of physical condition; he changed it, answering in English. "I am being well treated. How are the children?"

"Okay, I haven't told Demmy ye'll be away yet. I figured I'd give it a day or so. I think he had a feeling something was up when ye gave him the lecture again about being a big brother. Illuysha, où sont a bhfuil tú ag dul_where are ye going? She said in French and Irish.

This time he threw the eaves droppers a bone, speaking in Russian. "Ya na mogu skazat' ma cherie_I cannot say." He added French, that telling her the answer she needed.

"It will be fine, lyubov moy. Mo chuisle, mo chroí. Mo shíorgrá_ my pulse, my heart. My eternal love." he said to her in Irish.

The phone went silent. Then Elliott composed herself, and spoke in English, not caring who was listening in. "I love you Illya Kuryakin and always will. Be careful my love...now speak to yer children as it's getting late and they need ta get ready for bed."

He could hear the receiver being put down on the counter and then Elliott's voice in the background.

"Hi Papa," Demya's small voice spoke.

"Demyachka, are you being a good boy for Mama?"

"Da Papa, you are not coming home tonight are you?"

Illya smiled at his son's intuitiveness. "No I will not. I will be gone for a while, so I need you to help Mama and..."

"I know Papa, and to be a big brother to Lala. I will, I promise...I love you Papa."

"I love you too."

Bill Klein walked into the surveillance room, finding translators scrambling as they worked with their reel-to-reel tape recorders. It took a second for him to realize they were monitoring the Russian's phone call.

"What the fuck is going on here? I told you no monitoring of this call. Who the hell authorized this?" he demanded.

"I did sir," Sanders answered with a boldness to his voice. "He's a foreign national sir, a Communist. How could we not monitor this call. He's been briefed with details of a covert C.I.A. operation, how do we know he's not sending a message to his Soviet buddies."

"Goddammit!" Klein cursed, "you turn that recording equipment off _now!_ The man is speaking with his wife and children and his wife is a Section Chief for U.N.C.L.E. and has been vetted and cleared. I will not let a private family moment be interfered with, do you hear me? Now turn that shit off right now."

"But Bill he's a freaking Communist?"

"Sanders, shut your mouth and shut that equipment off!" Klein's voice boomed.

.

"Demya, ya tebya lyublu. Always remember your Papa loves you very much. Bud'khoroshim mal'chikum_be a good boy, hold the receiver to your sister's ear please?"

He could hear Elliott's voice in the background, prompting Lourdes.

"It's Papa, Lala...Papa."

"Pa-pa?"

"Hello Lala, da it's Papa." Illya whispered.

"Pa-pa!" she giggled." Lala Pa-pa...Mama Pa-pa!"

"I love you moya devochka_my baby girl. Papa loves you."

"Pa-pa." he heard her little voice repeat his name."Da Papa." he answered her.

Elliott took the receiver from Demya, "Illuysha, come home ta us."

"I will Annushka, I promise I will. I will be dreaming of you every night until I do."

"I'll be holding ye to that promise my Russian, Good night." Elliott hung up the phone before she became emotional. "Definitely not good bye," she whispered to herself. "Never good bye."

The line went dead with a click, then there was just a dial tone. Illya hung up the receiver then walked to the door, giving it a knock to let the agent know he was finished...even though they probably already knew. Once the phone was removed, he showered and dressed for bed. He crawled under the covers, resting with his hands clasped behind his head for a moment, praying that he could keep the promise he had made to his Elliott.

Illya rolled to his side as he closed his eyes, falling asleep and dreaming that he was dancing with his wife, just as he had their last night together in the living room holding each other, swaying together as they danced in the dark.

He could hear the music, it was _their _song _Unchained Melody..._ the one they danced to when they were married.

"_Oh my love my darling, I've hungered for your touch, a long lonely time. I need your love, I want your love. Lonely rivers sigh, wait for me, wait for me. I'll be coming home, wait for me..."_


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning Illya was woken up just after dawn. He showered and shaved, having to finally look at himself in the mirror for the first time since his hair had been colored auburn and found the look unnerving.

At least his eyes were still blue at the moment, so the image was not fully that of Kiril's. But once his hair had been combed back and the brown contact lenses added, he would then cease to be Illya Kuryakin.

He would be Kiril Nickovich Andropov and would have to maintain his late brother's persona for the duration of the mission...that thought churned his stomach.

He dressed in a pair of jeans and a black turtle neck, then threw on his suit jacket for good measure, and was escorted to the conference room for breakfast.

There were steam tables spread out with bacon, sausage, ham and hash brown potatoes, pancakes and cold cereal. And a variety of juices and carafes of coffee and hot water for tea, as well as assortment of bagels, hard rolls and danish and fruit compote. He was impressed that there was someone there with an electric skillet to cook every one's eggs to order.

And Illya hid his smile when he spotted a jar of raspberry jam on the table, thinking at least someone at the C.I.A. was being nice to him. Shame he never got her name. He had to give the C.I.A. credit, they definitely ate well.

"Good morning," Bill Klein greeting him, then touched the Russian's elbow as he pulled him aside for a private word.

"Look, I'd like to personally apologize for last night."

"Last night?" Illya asked, unsure of what Klein was referring to.

"Your phone call home, it was monitored for a bit as I'm sure you were aware. Some one went against my explicit orders not to do that, and I'm sorry it happened, especially when I told you it wouldn't. You had a right to some privacy with your wife and kids." Klein suddenly smiled, " though I have to admit your solution did have the translators in a quandary. That was pretty clever, I'll have to have my own people use that trick."

Illya smiled. He was impressed with Klein's forthrightness and was surprised that he was taking the man at his word. A week ago he would have sworn everything uttered by Klein was a lie, but after their conversation at dinner, specifically about family, the American seemed more human to him and not the complete jerk that he thought he was.

Admitting to that was saying a lot for the U.N.C.L.E. agent.

"Thank you Bill, I appreciate your efforts on my behalf. There was nothing untoward that was discussed between my wife and myself, as I am sure your translators will be quite disappointed to find when they do decipher our conversation, however privacy would have been nice for a husband and wife to utter _certain_ things to each other?"

"Understood, and again I apologize for my people's enthusiasm."

"I supposed they were just doing their job and in this case...unlike my last time working with you, there no harm done."

"Not gonna let me forget that are you?"

"Not on your life." Illya smiled wickedly.

They seated themselves at the table with their breakfast, while a few of the agents chuckled at the amount of food on the skinny Russian's plate.

"Hey Kuryakin doesn't that wife of yours or U.N.C.L.E. feed you enough?" One of them quipped.

He could have made rude remark, but chose to keep it cordial.

"Unfortunately there are few who can keep up with my appetite at times, such is the bane of a person with a high metabolism."

"You go for that high metabolism horse shit theory?" Klein laughed.

Illya swallowed a large mouthful of his Western omelette then spoke. "It is a scientifically proven fact that people metabolize food at different rates. Just like different types of cars require different types of fuels, my body does as well. I suppose I am like one of your sports cars that runs on high octane? I burn my fuel at a very high rate, and need to replenish it more often."

"Then what do you do when you can't eat?"

"I try to conserve my energy to prevent my body from shutting down. I also take frequent naps."

"Naps?" another agent blurted out, " What are you like some old lady or something? And here I thought you were this indestructible agent, but you're a _pussy_ needing your little cat naps, " one of the other operatives chimed in with a smart remark.

Illya just gave him one of his cold stares then continued to eat his breakfast. Then he decided to say something. " More like one of the dangerous _jungle_ cats that you never know when they will strike."

That shut them up.

The last portion of the plans were discussed after breakfast had been clear away. Illya would be taken by car to Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland, traveling via restricted roads, covering the nearly fifteen mile trip.

Once there he and his escort agent would be put aboard a military transport that would take them to France, from there he was on his own, arriving in Marseilles, where needed to make sure that he was _seen._ His cover story of having escaped from Canada aboard a freighter to the port of Marseilles had to look legitimate. The KGB would check.

He memorized the travel details, date of departure of the ship the S.S. Beaverelm, leaving Quebec to London, and even knew some of the crew names as well, then another freighter from London to Marseilles called the S.S. Santa Rosa. He absorbed details of that ship and crew as well. He would meet the Santa Rosa and actually blend in with the crew, helping to unload some of the cargo and if asked, the ship's captain and purser would confirm that he was on board if they were asked.

Once arriving at the port of Marseilles, he was to make his way to Bern Swizerland to meet his first contact and make himself visible at the KBG field office there as well, then on to Berlin where he was to cross the wall at the main gate and report to KGB headquarters in East Berlin. That would be the true test of his cover; if he made it past them, then he would be in good shape. Not free of danger, but still good.

Illya returned to his room after breakfast, gathering what little he had of his brother's belongings into a small, worn duffle bag that had been given to him. His own personal belonging were still in his suitcase, and he opened it one last time. Picking up his wedding ring and medallion his hand. He said a short prayer to St. Andrew, kissed the disc then his marriage band, putting them both safely away with his communicator and wallet inside his suitcase then locking it.

He carried the duffle and suitcase out with him, then was escorted back to the conference room, he handed his suit case to Bill Klein. "If something goes wrong, if I do not..."

"I know," Klein said somberly," I'll make sure your wife gets this. You didn't think I saw that _death clause _in your contract did you? I don't want to have to pay out another hundred thousand on top of your fee, so you better come back to that wife and family of yours." He then wished Illya luck, but refrained from shaking his hand.

They left the building, getting into a plain dull green unmarked government car, slowly pulling out along the circular drive and out into traffic. The driver took them along restricted roads, bringing them to the Base that was roughly about a half hour hour away.

Once at the airfield, they boarded an immense C-5 Galaxy cargo plane carrying a near full payload of heavy equipment destined for Tunisia. Though the C-5 was not ADA friendly, this newer cargo plane wasn't half bad except for the climb up to the passenger section that was a dedicated area on the upper deck, the equivalent of ten stories up, or so Illya heard mentioned.

When he viewed the inside of the plane, the size of it's interior was impressive and the climb tho the passenger area was nearly as far up as he had heard. It was self-contained with a galley and two latrines and with enough seats to accommodate seventy three passenger seats. He had to agree that this was truly a marvel of American ingenuity and was truly one of the largest military aircraft in the world. Though he had flown in transports before, they were nothing like this.

The forward upper deck seated a cockpit crew of six, a relief crew of seven and eight mail or messenger couriers.

Once airborne there was enough room to get up and walk about, climb up to the flight deck and visit with the crew if one wished, and unlike older military transports, at least there were _heads_ instead of _honeypots._

Agent Bud Henderson his escort, carried on his own small suitcase and a wicker basket, and seeing the Russian eyeing it, he told him it was food for the both of them for the trip.

"The cafeteria made us some ham and cheese sandwiches, coleslaw, German potato salad, macaroni salad...got a thermos of coffee and even some doughnuts," he smiled, explaining that he would be deplaning in Marseilles for his own assignment.

"That was very kind of them" Illya said as he settled into his seat, shoving his duffle beneath it. He would wait to change into Kiril's clothing before the flight was ready to land.

He then noticed a small stack of magazines laying to one side, thinking that would at least be something to keep him occupied when not sleeping on this long flight.

The passenger area had about thirty people in it, and as the announcement came from the cockpit, he could hear the cargo doors being closed. A few minutes later the engines began to rev up, then the monstrous transport began to taxi out into position.

Within a few minutes they were down the runway and air born. The noise was rather intense until the jet achieved the proper altitude and it was then that Illya crossed his arms in front of himself and went to sleep, driving all thoughts of this mission out of his mind until it was absolutely necessary for him to think about it.

He dreamt of Elliott as he had promised her, in his dream they were dancing again, in the darkness of their livingroom. _Lonely rivers sigh, wait for me, wait for me. I'll be coming home, wait for me..._ He dreamt of them making slow passionate love, and then he her heard her voice calling to him..."

"_Illuysha? Wake up my love, it's time to eat, lyubov moy." _ Suddenly it was not her voice, it was an unfamiliar one."Hey Kuryakin wake up, time to eat."

"Elliott?" he woke with a gasp.

"No Kuryakin, the name's Bud, remember? You want to eat or not?"

Illya rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with the heels of his hands..."Mmm, um, yes. " he cleared his throat, realizing he had been dreaming." yes that would be good thank you."

The flight was a peaceful one, though it felt strange to be traveling without is partner, no watching him flirt with stewardess, which was actually a bit of relief. Their missions alone had become far and few between, he supposing the Old Man liked them being together to watch each other's backs, especially when Napoleon was beginning to wind down his career in the field, where has Illya had several more years left beyond his partner.

After eating with Henderson, Illya scanned through the magazines for anything interesting then napped again, then woke again but this time and looked at his wristwatch, or rather Kirli's _Vostok _military style watch, he saw it was nearing their arrival time. He gathered up his duffle letting Hendrson know he was going to change.

Bud pulled a small bundle wrapped in oil cloth. "Here, take this. I was supposed to give it to you when we landed at Marseiiles but take it now."

Illy headed to the lavatory to change his clothes. Once dressed, he inserted the the brown contact lenses over his blue eyes, then shoved a small bottle of eye drops in his pocket as the lenses would have to be left in for who knew how long.

Illya looked in the mirror at his final transformation, as he had now become Kiril. "Menya zovut Kiril Nickovich Andropov_my name is Kiril Nickovich Andropov," he repeated in Russian over and over to himself, immersing himself in his role as Kiril as he stared into the mirror.

The resemblance was uncanny, given the fact that his brother's clothing fit him like a glove was to say the least unsettling. The last thing he did was unwrap the oil cloth that Henderson had given him, revealing the Tokarov pistol and slipped it into in his brown leather shoulder holster beneath his jacket.

He left his clothing there for someone to claim, though he regretted dumping the jeans and shoes as they'd been broken in nicely, but they were only clothes and could be replaced. That would have been unthinkable to him so many years ago when he was and agent for the GRU, clothing was worn until it was threadbare.

Kiril now returned to the seat occupied by Illya Kuryakin, wearing dark woolen pants, a cotton pin-striped shirt, worn boots and black leather jacket all owned by his late brother.

The flight landed on time at the Marseille-Marignane Airport, the site the former NATO hub, where no USAF plane had landed or departed since 1966, after De Gaulle had cut off tied with the North Atlantic Treaty Organization.

The C-5 Galaxy radioed Marseilles, reporting that they were supposedly having engine trouble and were granted permission to make a _so-called_ emergency landing.

Illya said his good bye to his C.I.A. travelling companion, then slipped off the plane under cover of darkness, carrying only his duffle stuffed with a few scant belongings of Kirils, and a false French passport in his pocket. He carried a German one, as well as Kiril's true Russian passport and ID hidden beneath the binding of ironically enough a hard copy of Toltoy's War and Peace, printed in French.

Illya scurried through to the airport, appearing as though he were looking to make a flight, examining the list of departures and picking the one that had just left, he cursed out loud angrily in colloquial French, pretending to have missed his wife's departing flight.

"Damned airlines! " he said loudly in French," they run on time when you need them not to. Now I have missed seeing my wife off and she will never forgive me! I am so screwed! Mon Dieu, sacrebleu? What am I to do, I havent a sou, my wife was supposed to give me money? How am I to get a taxi now and I have to go to my job! Merde!"

A Gendarme being quite sympathetic, and wishing him just to lower his voice decided to call and generously paid for a taxi for him and Illya smiled as he directed the driver to take him just to the outskirts of the port of Marseilles.

There he made his way to the docks, discreetly hanging around the S.S. Santa Rosa until the crew disembarked, then blended in among them as they worked, looking as if he belonged. There were several Russians among the crew members and he held back, following them to a small tavern that he knew well, called the _Toursky._

It was a place used frequently as a dead-drop by Soviet Intelligence agents, and was the perfect place to make his presence known. This would be his first contact with KGB.

He stepped into the darkened bar, the atmosphere making it feel exactly as if he were back in Russia. The decor, signage written in Cyrillic, and a lone musician sitting in a corner playing the balalaika quite soulfully. A few patrons sat at a table playing _Durak._

He nodded to the barkeep ordering his drink in Russian. "Vodka i ostav'tebyutylku_vodka and leave the bottle.

"Vy prosto korabl' v_you just ship in, you look new, I do not know your face?"

"Da, from London. Komrade, I need to speak to the party representative here."

"You?"

"No my invisible friend you fool, now where is he?" Illya snapped his fingers, taking on an air of authority.

"There is no one like that here, you are mistaken."

Illya leaned forward on the bar, taking the man by the shirt and pulling his face to his...no to Kiril's. "Tell me, what is your name?"

"Yevgeni."

"Well Komrade Yevgeni if you want see tomorrow then you will tell the truth. So do not jerk me around. I want to see him now." He flashed a feral smile at the man.

"Da,-eer_yes sir," the man cowered, being used to these KGB types as he was now sure this auburn-haired man was. Better not to annoy him as he was sure he was armed and already seemed testy.

Yevgeni put down his bar towel then walked to a back table. There he spoke with a middle-aged, grey haired man, sporting the old style, full Imperial Russian moustache and wearing a typical workman's cap and clothes.

After speaking with him for a moment, and nodding in Illya's direction the barman waved for Illya to come to the table.

He approached them cautiously, and sitting down at the table when a chair was pushed out for him.

"Can I help you Komrade?"

"You are?"

"Forgive me, I am Yuri, and you are Komrade?"

"Kirl."

"Well Kiril the birds fly south too soon this year, perhaps it will be an early winter in the Kolyma region."

Illya recognized instantly that it was a request for a coded response. He didn't know the proper one and drove straight to the point, hoping word of Andropov's disappearance had spread within the world of Soviet intelligence.

"I am afraid that I have been out of touch and am not up to date on the current codes." he said as he tossed his KGB ID on the table." I am Kiril Nickovich Andropov and I have been on the run for the last month and a half. I am sure that my superiors have been convinced of my demise, but I escaped my tormentors and am now in need assistance getting back home. Can you help me Komrade?"

Yuri looked at Kiril's identification, studying it carefully then looking up at Illya, and after a few minutes he made the decision that he was legitimate.

"Yes I have heard of you Kiril Nickovich, and yes the Directorate thinks you are dead. They will be pleased I think that you have survived your ordeal. Tell me is it true that one of our own turned traitor to Mother Russia, and gave his loyalty instead to that organization U.N.C.L.E.?"

Illya hesitated, knowing that he was condemning himself. "Da Yuri, he is the one who tried to kill me, but obviously since I am here, he was not successful in his attempt." He smiled boldly. " Now that you know who I am..."

"Oh yes, my apologies. I am Yuri Alexaevich Kondratiev How did you escape Komrade?" Yuri asked.

"I made my way to Canada, then hopped a freighter to London, then another from London to Marseilles. It was a long and arduous journey. There were a few Russians on the last freighter, but at least being here I feel better. It has been good to hear my own language again.

"Yes there are times I too need this place as a solace, I often tire of hearing these frogs and their language."

"Kondratiev? Are you related to Nicholaí Dmitriyevich Kondratiev, the economist?"

"Da, he was my grand-uncle."

"You come from a politically connected family, and you are stationed here?"

"Ah such things happen, one falls into favor one falls out. Life is like the ebb and flow of the tides. You get used to these things. Nothing lasts forever does it Komrade?" Yuri opened a bottle of vodka sitting on the table, pouring two glasses for them.

"Not if I can help it." Kiril said boldly.

"And that attitude is why you are still alive Kiril Nickovich. Tell me this traitor, did you kill him?"

"Da." Illya let go a sly smile. " I will need transportation to East Berlin, as I must at least report there to KGB liaison before I return to Moskva. Can you arrange that for me?"

Komrade Andropov, it will be done. "K ushpeku_to your success." Yuri raised his glass. " One less traitor left in the world."

"Da, uspekh_success," Illya answered, raising his glass to Yuri. He was feeling exhausted and needed sleep, being jet-lagged from the flight and hoped this wasn't gong to turn into a marathon drinking session.

"You look tired Komrade."

"I am Yuri Alexaevich, it has been an exhausting ordeal, but I am given strength knowing I am that much closer to home." In that Illya was not lying, the stress brought on by being forced to kill his brother, the discussions with Napoleon and Elliott about the mission and then the pre-mission jitters had taken their toll on him.

"Where is home Kiril Nickovich?"

"Kyiv."

"I was to Kyiv once, so much of it was destroyed during the great war, not only by the Nazis but by our own army."

"Yes Komrade, I was there as a child. Our soldiers blew up much of the city to keep it from offering succor to the Germans." Kiril said. "But have not been back there since the war years, it holds too many bad memories for me."

"Yes but things have changed as has Kyiv, there is much that is not recognizable."

"Da." He agreed as he yawned. He had not been in Kyiv since he had been taken from the refugee camp to live in the orphanage in Moskva; it would stand to reason that much of the city had to have been rebuilt.

"Kiril Nickovich, we have a room with a cot in the back for travelers such as yourself, rest there in the knowledge that you are safe among your Komrades. I will get word to the Directorate that you will be returning home."

"Spacibo tovarisch."

Kiril followed the man to a small dimly lit room in the rear of the tavern, finding it just as the man had said; a military style cot with a pillow and coarse woolen blanket. and a plain wooden table. To him it looked most inviting as he was ready to fall asleep on his feet.

Once he was alone, he carefully removed the contact lenses as it was not safe to sleep with them in. He would just have to be cautious. He held the Tokarov in his hand, closing his eyes and envisioned Elliott as he had promised her he would, as he fell asleep dreaming only of her.

That would be the only time he could think of her, as during his waking hours, he had to be Kiril, and Kiril had no one.

Hours later Yuri entered the room, causing Illya to instantly roll over, pointing the Tokarov at him in a reflexive action, while shading his eyes with his other hand.

"Excuse me," Kiril said, as he slipped quickly into the bath room where he doused his eyes with saline then reinserted the contact lenses. He returned to the waiting Yuri.

"Komrade, the Directorate has been notified and congratulates you on your survival and escape. They are expecting you to arrive at KGB headquarters in East Berlin with all haste for debriefing. I have arranged for a car for you to drive...an old Citroën, in pretty good shape. It is stolen and we have changed the plates, you must drive carefully so as to not raise suspicion and be stopped by the Gendarmes.

Yuri handed him a map with the route already plotted out for him to cross through to East Germany. It was not out of kindness that this was done, as he knew that they would be watching him along the route to ensure he was not a traitor. This might prove problematic for him to make his contacts along the way. The right cities were there though on the trip now plotted out for him, he would just have to not be seen meeting with his middlemen.

He would be close to a number of U.N.C.L.E. locations, but could not risk going near any of them. His identity was no longer that of Illya Kuryakin, as he was now Kiril Andropov. He _was_ Kiril Andropov.


	8. Chapter 8

"Are you hungry Kiril Nickovich?" Yuri asked.

"Da, Yuri Alexaevich I am _always_ hungry, " He kept himself from laughing.

"That is not surprising, one as skinny as you. You are one of us I take it that does not get to eat enough enh? I know the Directorate likes to keep some of it's operatives lean and hungry. So I have nice hot borscht for you along with hearty black bread, just like home."

"Beets with cabbage?" Kiril half hit his smile.

"But of course the Russian way and a little beef and potato as well, Yuri smiled, then disappeared from the room.

He reappeared with a piping hot bowl of the burgundy colored soup and a plate with thick buttered slabs of the dark bread carried in his large hands, which Kiril accepted with a nod of gratitude.

It _was _made the Russian way as there was a dollop of sour cream in the middle of it, and the soup was so thick that the spoon stood straight up. On the tray was an ice cold bottle of vodka and a glass. The scent of it all suddenly gave Illya a feeling of warmth as some pleasant memories of _home_ surfaced.

He remembered sitting with some of his class-mates at University, being served such a meal by one of the Matrons. He had just gotten over being sick and his Komrades had actually welcomed him back into their little fold with a small gathering, with lots of food and vodka. Illya remembered there were pleasant memories from time to time and things were not always that bad. But then he realized most of those pleasant thoughts usually revolved around food.

His classmates were long gone now, most of them having perished in a lab accident...he would have died as well had he not left to get something to eat. That brought negative feelings back to him, turning him cold instantly. Those people, his friends were ruled as incompetent and it was said they deserved to die. Their deaths were their last gifts to the people of the Soviet Union, whom they would no longer burden with their stupidity.

He'd nearly starved to death twice in his life, his high metabolism accelerating the process and yet his high metabolism had saved his life as well as he thought back on that fateful lab accident...he looked at his meal, bringing himself back to the present.

Tradition dictated that the first shot of ice-cold vodka was followed by a spoonful of the hot borscht, then by a mouthful of black rye bread, and he would not be one to break with tradition.

He swallowed his first glass of vodka then spooned a mouthful of the soup into his mouth, and nodded, then followed it by the bite of the bread. It was all good, but Elliott's was better.

Illya had to stop himself. This was not the time or the place for letting his thoughts drift to his wife or children...he had _no_ wife, he had _no_ children. He had to maintain his focus, he was _Kiril_, a hard-hearted bastard, a merciless killer and womanizer...no an abuser of women. He would let himself dream of them, but when awake they had to cease to exist.

The borscht and bread were gone in no time and he pushed the plates away in satisfaction, then poured himself another glass of vodka...one for the road.

It was time to go, as he was still on a time table of sorts. Though he had allowed for some delays, it was better not to waste any time just in case.

He holstered the Tokarov then put on his jacket, gathering up his duffle that he noticed had been searched, as he expected it would be. There was nothing untoward to be found there, nothing suspicious at all, so the fact that it had been rifled gave him no concern. It was just standard procedure for Yuri to have done it.

To these people he was Andropov and nothing more and he was sure that a photograph of him had arrived via facsimile telegraphy. Luckily such photos were not known for their precise imagery, which was in his favor. Although no one except an astute person who knew Kiril well enough would see the subtle differences between he and his brother and only in person

Kiril gave his thanks to his benefactor, tossed his duffle inside the car that waited for him curbside, as well as a small paper sack containing more black bread, some jam and cheese for the journey, and a small thermos of _tisane, _an herbal tea... then he climbed into the drivers seat of the light grey car they had supplied him with .

The Citroën economy class car had many nicknames. The French called it _Deduche_, the Dutch named it _le lijke eendjie_..._the ugly duckling_ and in England it was dubbed _the flying dustbin, _there were other similar nom de guerre for this rather ugly vehicle, but no matter as long as it ran and was able to get him through the 1176 km. journey to East Berlin.

He put the four-speed car into gear, pulling away from the _Toursky_ without looking back. Telling himself that it had begun. Kiril grasped the steering wheels with one hand as he increased the speed, shifting the gears with the other while heading north on Quai de Belges toward Place Gabriel Péri to Rue de La Republique onto A-51. He would follow that to E712 to Switzerland, through Grenoble, Albertville, past Geneva and skirting along Lac Léman to E27 to his first stop in Bern. If he was able to maintain a good speed, this leg of the journey would take him just under seven hours.

There in the capital of Switzerland he would stop to rest, visiting another KGB hideaway that would only be known to a member of Soviet intelligence and as well as meet his first C.I.A. contact. He may have worked for U.N.C.L.E. all these years but he still maintained some Russian contacts across Europe. So he often knew what a member of the KGB would know in that respect and where to go in Bern. The agent from Langely would no doubt find him.

Once back on the road again, it was his plan to sleep along the way while staying in the car travelling up through Germany. He had the ability to wake when it was needed and did not require any sort of alarm as this was a skill he had perfected over the years. He would grab meals when ever he could, and would purchase things that he could snack on while still driving.

Illya knew he would not be able to digress from this route as he was sure that he was under surveillance and needed to be seen in certain locations, if it weren't for this and his cover story for avoiding public transport because of U.N.C.L.E. supposedly searching for him, he would have flown to Berlin, but it was a necessary evil in order to make him look like the real Kiril.

Though the local KGB had accepted that he was Kiril Andropov, his identity remained to be truly verified once he arrived at their headquarters in East Berlin for debrief and their visual confirmation that he was who he said he was. Until then he would be under a cloud of suspicion even though it appeared along the way that they accepted who he was.

In the end, they would either buy that he was Kiril or they would not, and if they did not, then Illya knew he was as good as dead.

The drive was a long but at least a scenic one, and he wished he could have stopped by the lake, Lac Léman with it's crystal clear waters reflecting the magnificent snow-capped peaks of the Alps. The water was so blue and clear that it was hard to tell where she sky ended and the water began, and it was only when a delicate sailboat sailed past that one was able to get a sense of perspective. The hillsides surrounding the lake were stepped with the rippling green rows of vineyards. It really was a very alluring and pastoral sight.

He arrived at the historic old town in the center of the city of Bern in just over six hours, having made excellent time. And after parking the car, Illya now headed on foot along the medieval shopping promenade with it's uniform arched porticos on either side of it, moving along the cobblestone street, with small fountains dotting it's middle along the way.

He was nearing the the _Zyglogg_e, an astronomical clock tower with moving puppets built in the thirteenth century. It once served as a guard tower, then a prison and was located just at the end of Kramgasse. Just to the right of the the tower and behind it was a small six story building on the next street. That was his destination, number 6 at the corner of Marktgasse and Theaterplatz.

Snaking red trolleys ran along the road in front of him along the Theaterplatz, offering the only mode of transportation other than walking as this was a pedestrian area with no motor vehicles permitted.

The building was a seemingly innocent looking location, beside a very visible tourist attraction and not what one might imagine as a secret designation for a KGB field office. Kiril walked in the main entrance, taking the stairs to the third floor to the innocuous room 3B. On the door was a brass placard that read _Rudolph Heller_, _Rechtsanwalt__ solicitor. Illya knocked on the door, then entered, and was greeted by a young dark-haired woman. Some sort of receptionist he supposed.

"Kann ich ihnen helfen_may I help you?"

The waiting area was empty and he spoke the code in German that Yuri Alexaevich had given him to her.

"Ich höre Kolyma ist frei von schnee in diesam jar_I hear Kolyma will be free of snow this year.

Her eyes went cold as she gave the proper response."But only in the winter. Welcome Herr Andropov, we have been expecting you. Please step this way?" She stood gesturing for him to follow her to the next room.

She opened the door to a simply furnished office with just a long table and chairs. The windows faced out to the cobblestone street of the Kramgasse giving a full view of the comings and goings below.

"Please be seated, Herr Heller will be with you in a moment. May I offer you anything. Coffee perhaps?

"Nein," he answered her dismissively, remembering that Kiril was generally rude to women.

She nodded her head knowingly, as if his answer had told her more than his lack of desire for anything. Although he really would have loved a cup of coffee to invigorate him, it was better not to use any sort of stimulant for the moment.

A few minutes later a heavy set man entered the room carrying in file. His face was round and pudgy, with his jowls being hidden behind a full dark mustache, the same Imperial style that Yuri had sported. His clothes were a little tight, with the spaces between the buttons covering his belly bulging open just a bit.

Illya smiled at the sight, knowing the KGB employed all kinds to do their dirty work. This man was most likely a paper pusher, simply forwarding intelligence to and fro without much physical effort on his part, and was surely not a field operative.

"Welcome Komrade." Heller said, offering his hand, which Kiril declined.

He could see that lack of friendliness on his part made Heller a little nervous. That was good, as Kiril had the reputation of being a nasty svoloch'.

"Your trip Komrade was it good?"

"I am not here to discuss pleasantries Herr Heller. I am here for you to verify for KGB in East Berlin that I am who I say I am, that and for you to supply me with a safe house for the night. Now let us get on with it if you please, as I am tired from my trip." Kiril said coldly.

"Yes, if I could beg your indulgence?" Heller smiled suspiciously, " it says here in your file that your last..."

"My last duty assignment was part of a security detail for the Russian Ambassador while visiting the United Nations in New York...now ask me something that no one else but Kiril Andropov would know.

Heller's simple demeanor changed, his face hardened as he held a true photograph of Kiril Andropov in his hand, studying it as he looked at the auburn-haired man sitting in front of him. "You look thinner than your photograph Komrade."

"Any fool knows that a photograph adds ten pounds." Kiril snapped.

"Very well Kiril Nickovich, you were born in Kyiv were you not? Your father perished during the war..."

That statement stung Illya a little, but he did not as Kiril react to it.

"How did your father die?"

"My father died a fool's death outside of Kyiv when a Nazi patrol discovered the camp he was hiding in like a coward. Instead of fighting in the army he chose to cower in the forest."

" And your father's name?"

"Nicholaí you fool, am I not Kiril Nickovich?" He snapped, referring to his patronymic name of Nickovich derived from Nickolaí.

"And his last name was Andropov." The pudgy fool smiled.

"Nein, I was a bastard son. Andropov was my mother's name. That is something that only I would know...if you examine my records further as you obviously have not, you will see that my father was listed only as Nickolaí." This much Illya knew about Kiril's public records that only this low level operative would have access to. In Kiril's private dossier, their father's name was actually listed, but only high level members of the Directorate would have access to those documents.

"My mother never revealed his last name, and only said that he was called was Nickolaí. More than likely because he was a married man," he said continuing his bluff. "There were many men named Nickolaí in the camp."

"And how did you discover the manner in which your father died. You were not there when it happened?"

"I left the camp and stayed with some young people outside of Kyiv. I learned it from someone else who's father died there as well."

"And he was..."

"You know damned well it was that son of a bitch Kuryakin, the traitor and the agent from U.N.C.L.E. who tried to kill me in New York."

"And why was that? "

"He resented me and my successes. I was always better than him and that was why he was farmed out to U.N.C.L.E. The Directorate was culling the herd..."

"Interesting, Kuryakin knew your true father's name, but never revealed it to you?"

"Nein, the man was an animal and took great pleasure in withholding that information from me. He used to torment me about it. Lauding it over me that he knew who my father was and would never tell me." Illya stopped there, knowing the more he said, the more complicated his lie would become and more difficult to keep straight.

That was the tidbit of knowledge that satisfied the fat fool, as it was not public knowledge that Andropov was a matrilineal name. No one outside the Directorate knew that Illya and Kiril were brothers as that was kept in the classified portion of their dossiers and he would withhold that fact until needed. This man was low-level KGB and Illya expected little intensity in the the man's questioning, he knew that would come later, from someone higher up the food chain.

"Ah very good Komrade Andropov and thank your for your candid answers. You understand we needed to verify your identity." The man oozed with sincerity now.

"Now you are satisfied and _now_ I need a safe house and food." Kiril demanded rudely.

"But of course Komrade." Heller smiled as he handed Kiril a slip of paper with an address written on it." It is not far from here and..."

"I know where the street is you fool. I have been here before." Kiril said, then realized that may have been a slip-up as he wasn't really sure that Andrpov had ever been to Bern, though common sense told him he could have been. He would have to be more careful in the future and only hoped this _durak_ would not investigate further . The conversation was no doubt being recorded and hoped no one would pick up on his possible error.

He snatched the paper from Heller's hand and left the office."Blvdes Arschloch_stupid asshole," he muttered, heaving a sigh of relief as he walked down the stairs to the street below. Number 9 Kornhauseplatz...it was right around the corner. And took only a minute to reach it, a seedy looking six story building that looked like a cheap hotel.

"Welcome Herr Andropov, we were..." A young man greeted him at the main desk.

"Yes I know you were expecting me, now where is my room? And I want the usual amenities sent up immediately." He snarled.

Kiril was handed a key, and shown up to the second floor, the room offering a good view of the street. He made note of his escape routes just in case, then closed the door behind him and locking it.

He tossed his duffle onto the bed, then dropped down beside it.

It was a plain dingy room in a grimy hotel but it would do. His contact lenses would have to stay in as he was sure he was under full surveillance this time. Even though his identity had been verified with some satisfaction by that fat fool, the KGB never let go. They watched everything and everyone, regardless of their status.

There was a knock at the door and he jumped from the bed, his Tokarov drawn and ready as he approached the door standing to one side.

"Who is there?" he called suspiciously.

"It is Züsi, I have a meal for you...and what you requested," a female voice spoke seductively to him from outside the door. He suddenly realized that asking for _amenities_ in this sort of place may have gotten him more than he bargained for.

Or perhaps it was another test, as Kiril was known for his voracious appetites when it came to women. "Der'mo_shit." he mumbled under his breath, then looked through the peep hole to verify the woman was alone.

Illya unlocked the door, still holding his weapon in his hand.

A shapely blond stepped into the room wearing a clinging halter top that barely covered her breasts and a very short mini skirt, and spiked heels. It was obvious that she was a prostitute. She carried a tray with her, on it a platter of Bernerplatte, a local dish of assorted hot and cold pork and beef served with sauerkraut, beans and potatoes. As well as a bottle of Pinot Noir and two glasses.

"Aren't you the handsome one?" she smiled.

She was made up heavily but under all that powder and blush he could tell she was pretty, and thought that it was a shame that someone with her looks was in such a distasteful profession.

This one was not one of the _Inderderdevochka_, the _international girls_ as they were called back in Russia, they were the ones who preferred wealthy foreigners as their clientele. This one was obviously a _savityskaya_...a ruble prostitute. She did not have the nice apartment to entertain wealthy men. She was poor as he could see her sleazy clothes were cheaply made, probably undereducated and alone. The perfect patsy for the KGB. She does what they tell her to do, and they give her a roof over her head, a little money and maybe some medical care for those usual diseases that afflict women in her occupation.

She set the tray on the table bending over in such a way that her breasts practically fell out of her top as she opened the wine and poured one glass, then she walked over to Kiril handing it to him, noting that he was watching her every move. She reached over, pulling the duffle off the bed, and as she bent, he got quite a view of what she wasn't wearing beneath her skirt. She then straightened herself, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him but he pushed her away and none too gently.

Illya was not happy about this, but it would be a necessity to again prove that he was Kiril Andropov, if it indeed was a test. He was sure they were being watched and decided get it over with quickly, going for the lesser of two evils as he grabbed her by her hair, pulling her down.

"Auf die knie hünden_on your knees bitch." he snarled at her coldly. "Lutsch mein' Schwanz!"

He unzipped his trousers, "Do it " he growled, "And I better not feel any teeth." He let her have at him until he exploded without his making a sound, dismissing the physical pleasure quickly to just let himself feel only a sense of relief that it was over with.

He felt a piece of paper being slipped by her into his hand and at that moment he suddenly back handed her, knocking her to the floor. He felt bad doing it, but he had to maintain his brother's cruel attitude towards women.

She lay there for a moment, holding her cheek as Kiril reached into his wallet, throwing her some money. "Why did you hit me, wasn't it a good blow job, you seemed to enjoy it? I can do more for you if you like, wouldn't you like to screw me? I am clean, I have no diseases."

"Du hast Glück, verwende ich nicht meine faust_you are lucky I do not use my fist!"He snarled at her. "Jetzt ti hier raus Hure_ now get out whore, my food is getting cold."

Züsi grabbed the money and retreated from the room, thinking that she had gotten off lucky with this one, supposing that if he had fucked her, then he probably would have beaten her up. He would have needed to do it to maintain his cover.

She had been warned about the persona of Andropov that this agent had assumed and was glad that he opted for the blow-job, letting her pass the information with a minimum of pain involved as he needed it to be told where to find his next C.I.A. contact. She was used to her cover as a hooker, but wished the Farm would recall her as she was getting tired of this dirty side of her job. Now she needed to report to them that contact had been made and everything seemed to be proceeding as planned.

In another room in the same seedy hotel, a man sat at a video screen watching and recording the goings on in the room next door, trying to not let what he was watching get him too excited. He had expected a good show with Andropov screwing the girl, then roughing her up, given the man's reputation, but instead he watched as the KGB agent settled for a blow job, thinking at least Züsi had gotten off easy.

Illya ate his meal in silence, glancing at the address on the paper as he greedily finished all of his food. He had several more glasses of wine before he stripped down to his boxers then used the bathroom, flushing the paper down the toilet and then climbed into bed. He dare not risk taking out the contacts. even to sleep, but managed to slip the vial of eye drops under the covers with him and doused his eyes with the soothing saline before he went to sleep.

He wiped the sex with Züsi out of his mind, dismissing it as simply part of the job. Something he and Elliott had both acknowledged...no, he had to stop that thought as well. He had to stop thinking about his wife. He had no wife, he was Kiril and it was Kiril that had oral sex with that that woman...that was how he rationalized it to keep it from bothering him further.

In the surveillance room the agent commented to his partner. "Will you look at the scars on that one? He must really be the crazy animal they say he is, did you see how he treated Züsi?I will be glad when he is out of here, this one is dangerous. You never know what their kind will do."

"Well he goes onto East Berlin in the morning, so he will be their problem then. And good riddance, I say."


	9. Chapter 9

Napoleon Solo had just exited his taxi at the drop off zone for the Pan Am Worldport at New York's Kennedy Airport He was on assignment, heading to Frankfurt then onto their West Berlin headquarters to look into a security leak that was happening there.

It was not an assignment that he was looking forward to, firstly because it involved paperwork and going through lots of it. He hated paperwork, and secondly his partner would not be there to help him with the aforementioned paperwork.

He secretly wondered at times, knowing his aversion to that part of the job, why Alexander Waverly had decided upon him to someday move into the slot as Chief Continental Officer..."but then again there would be an entire pool of secretaries and agents at his disposal handle it all," he chuckled to himself.

Then his thoughts drifted back and forth to his partner again and to his own boring mission at hand as he checked in his suitcase with the blue-uniformed ticket agent at the international counter.

Illya could scan though things in half the time that he could and his eidetic memory of his would enable him to remember the minutest of details of the puzzle that ended up in front of them, allowing _him_ to piece them together.

That was being a little greedy on his part, he supposed. Illya couldn't be around to help him like that all the time, but he just wished his friend wasn't off on his own. He was still worried about not being there for his partner.

They normally wouldn't discuss their individual missions with each other but Illya had broken his rule and spoke about it to his partner and the way Napoleon was feeling right now, he realized that usual silence was for a good reason. He was concern about Illya...when in the past it was more like _what you don't know, won't hurt you. _Trouble was... he did know and it was distracting him.

"Illya," he sighed, " I hope you're okay buddy?"

The ticket agent cleared her throat, calling him from his thoughts back to reality and he handed the woman his ticket.

"Why hello Mr. Solo, welcome to Pan American Airlines," she smiled at him, batting her eyelashes.

He flashed his own charmingly handsome smile back at her, noting her lovely green eyes, dimpled cheeks and chocolate brown hair pinned up beneath her cap. There was a time he wouldn't have hesitated to get her name and number from her and had a date prearranged upon his return...but those days were gone.

He had to admit, he didn't really miss those day anymore. Sneaking off from or waking up in a strange woman's bed time and again wasn't always as pleasant as when he'd first crawled into it .

Then having to make excuses why he wasn't around, or begging off when they were getting too clingy made it awkward at times, and he'd bolt for the door time and again. He craved women's attention, then ran from it when they got too close, and he supposed it was because they were too _needy, _he didn't need _needy _in his life.

But he always seemed to end up in bed with that sort of woman anyway...or just the opposite, a Thrush mata hari like Angelique. Yet he supposed he was being _needy_ too, and was using them to soothe his loneliness time and again. So what was it that he was running to and from at the same time?

Had it been fear of commitment? It could have, as commitment was something U.N.C.L.E. just didn't permit, except to them. It was a personal luxury that a spy had no right to. But then the company rules changed, thanks to his partner and Elliott Mc Gowan and Alexander Waverly.

Then he met his Bella...Josephina to his Napoleon. She wasn't needy at all and he didn't feel that way with either when he was with her. In fact she was one of the strongest women outside of the world of espionage that he'd ever met. He found him self completely drawn to her and he took the chance, just as Illya had and grabbed that brass ring before it became too late.

Marrying Bella Graziani was one of the best things he'd ever done in his life...besides saving the world that is...oh and fathering his twin daughters. He smiled at that thought. And just like Illya did, he put aside the precariousness of his life and lived for the moment. Bella understood that and was willing to accept it.

And now he had his beautiful little girls. They were his legacy to live on after him...he even dared to hope that he and Bella would have a son some day. Imagine that he the great Napoleon Solo, master spy and lover extraordinaire thinking about the future... his family, his legacy, his children.

His babies, Poly and Luci...the loves of his life. Just as he had been incredulous at Illya having a son, then getting married and one of the last things he would have predicted for his partner, now he too having a wife and children seemed almost surreal. Never in his wildest dreams did he ever think he would become a husband and father. It was something he craved, but never thought would happen even after he retired, especially working for an organization like U.N.C.L.E.

Traipsing around the globe, saving the day from Thrush and other nefarious n'ere do wells wasn't exactly conducive to having a family, but thanks to Illya and Elliott being Waverly's guinea pigs, the no-marriage clause was rescinded. And some how in spite of the world fraught with darkness and danger, it all seemed to work. Being a spy, a husband and a father, yet he still found it extraordinary.

"Mr. Solo?"

"Ah yes, sorry. I have a lot on my mind, just thinking about the wife and kids...and my best friend.

"Oh?" the was a slight tone of disappointment in her voice. Unlike Illya, he didn't wear his wedding band when out in the field, so the lovely lady had no clue that he was married and happily at that.

She composed herself. "Will that be smoking or non-smoking Mr. Solo?'

"Non, thank you..." he finally looked at her name tag, " Adriennne."

Though he wouldn't have minded having a smoke, but he'd quit before the babies were born. He wasn't as heavy a smoker as Illya had been, and was able to quit pretty much cold turkey, unlike his partner who'd been smoking since he was a quite young and had failed at several attempts to quit before finally breaking the habit. It hadn't helped that Elliott smoked too, but then with getting pregnant, she seemed to be able to quit more easily years ago when Demya was born.

"I see that your ticket is a one way to Frankfurt, will you be returning with us at a later date?"

"Hopefully." He smiled at her," I have business to attend to, but I'm not sure how long it'll take.

She handed him his boarding pass. "That will be gate 9A to your left on the upper level departure area, have a nice flight Mr. Solo."

He nodded to her. "Good, 9A was right near a bar," he thought, looking at his wristwatch, noting there was plenty of time to stop for a scotch.

.

Elliott had just gotten home from a trying day at headquarters. She'd had to counsel two of the junior agents for _cat-fighting. _Even though U.N.C.L.E. was a multi-national, open-minded organization and supposed to be free of normal prejudices, it's staff were after all _human_ and subject to human frailties.

This was was an argument between two Section III agents from France arguing the pros and cons of the possible wildcat strike that was rumored to take place in May in their home country. The situation was wreaking havoc among De Gaulle's ruling government, the trade unions and the French Communist party. The agents _heated_ discussion went too far and metamorphosized into a knock-down, drag-out fight in the commissary.

She gave them a warning and told them to take it to the gym if they needed to blow off some steam but with the equipment and _not _with each other, nipping it in the bud.

"Boys will be boys," she said to herself.

Needless to say, it was all she could do to keep Waverly from dismissing them. But promises of counseling and appropriate assignments as penance for their misdeeds soothed the Old Man's ire.

After an incident with a former Agent Anderson and Illya,* agents who didn't get along were just separated by transfer, or deprogrammed and released, depending upon the severity of the offence but this time Alexander Waverly seemed distracted by other things, and was not his usual level-headed self. And one comment from him, looking her directly in the eye told her that he was just as worried about Illya as she was.

He uttered one sentence. "I'm sure he'll be fine my dear." Then he asked her to take care of the matter with the section III agents. That was very much unlike him...

.

Olga had just finished getting dinner ready, a Hungarian goulash against the late chill they were still experiencing.

"I'm off to Brooklyn" she smiled, "putting on her Spring coat."

"This isn't yer normal card night?" Elliott asked.

"To tell you the truth, I'm seeing a gentleman," Olga blushed, " and to think at my age?"

"Good on ye Olga, everyone has a right to a bit of happiness, right?"

"Yes when you put it that way my darling, it sounds right. Demya is in his room, and Lourdes is in the playpen in the living room."

"Any escape attempts today?"

"Oh that one, she'll be out of that playpen soon. She's holding onto that railing and stepping along it on here tippy toes. Heaven help us when she figures out how to get out of there?" Olga laughed. "Good night dearest," she smiled at Elliott, knowing not to ask about Illya as it might cause some upset.

"Have fun on yer date, and don't do anything that I wouldn't do!" Elliott suddenly giggled at herself for saying that, " doesn't leave much, does it now?'

Olga's face turned red as she closed the vestibule door behind her. Elliott reset the alarm code then headed to the living room to check on Lala.

As soon as she poked her head around the corner, her daughter spotted her with a squeal of delight.

"Maaaaaa-ma! Mamamamamama!"

"Yes Lala, it's Mama, don't wear it out now." she smiled, picking the child up in her arms.

"Mama... Papa?" Lala held up her arms in her _all gone_ gesture.

"No Papa, he's away darlin'...but he'll come home soon. Now are ye hungry?"

"Da...dadadadada!" Lourdes clapped her hands together.

"What am I saying, ye are always hungry...guess the _apple doesn't fall far from the tree,_ doesn't mo stórín_ my little treasure? Can ye say that Lala...stór? Stoooor?

"Sta,staaaa."

"Good try, maith an cailín_good girl. We'll get ye speaking some Irish words soon enough...Russian or no Russian." she laughed. "Ye are after all, half Irish aren't ye now child?"

"Ay , ay ay. "

"Tá...Irish...I-rish."

"Lalalalalalalalala," the child was saying her name in a sing-song sort of way now.

"So much for that language lesson?"Elliott sighed. She carried her daughter with her to the foot of the stairs, calling up to her son.

"Demmy! Supper's on the table, put down what ever it is ye are building and come down please?" Then she walked into the kitchen balancing Lala on her hip then putting her into the high chair beside the table.

They would eat at there instead of in the dining room tonight as it was easier to handle her youngest there by herself with the mess the child tended to make while eating, and they also ate there when Illya was away.

It served as a reminder of that fact she supposed. Demya was handling the comings and goings of his father well enough now, but his sociability had improved little since his ordeal."* "Perhaps she would invite his friend Carmine over for a play date?"

Minutes passed and still there was no sign of Demya coming downstairs. Elliott lifted Lourdes from the highchair, settling the child onto her hip again then headed upstairs, walking down the hallway to her son's bedroom.

Elliott quietly opened the door so as to not startle him, and saw Demmy kneeling on the floor coloring away furiously on a piece of drawing paper with a bright green Crayola crayon.

"Demmy my darlin', I called ye for supper, did ye not hear me?"

"He ducked the paper behind his back, obviously hiding it from her."

"I heard but I needed to finish something first."

"I don't thing so. When I call ye to come for supper, that means you put down what ye are doing and come boy-o."

"But Mama it's a surprise for you and I wanted to give it to you before we ate?"

"Me? Ye have a surprise for me?" she smiled. "What is it then?"

"I can't tell you Mama, otherwise it won't be a surprise. May I finish it first please?"

"Just a few minutes more Mama, pleeeeease?" He flashed his baby blues at her, looking so much like his father and that was it, all she needed to pull at her heart strings. Her thoughts of Illya were constant, and Demmy's appearance drove them home even deeper.

Elliott composed herself, not wanting to let the child see her worry for his father. "Well," she winked at him, " since ye used _may I , _but how long now, I don't want ye ta keep me waiting, "she teased.

"Just a few minutes more Mama, I promise."

"Alright then. Just don't take too long Demmy, we need ta eat supper, then bath time and ready for bed, ceart go leor_right enough?"

"Go raibh maith agat," he thanked her in Irish. That made his mother smile, as he was sure his surprise for her would as well.

"That boy knows how to manipulate me, just like his father does." she thought as she closed the door behind her, leaving it slightly ajar, then returning downstairs, putting her daughter back in the highchair.

Then she ladled a small amount of the goulash into Lala's melamine bowl, and chopped up the contents to more child-friendly pieces.

Lourdes though having been a preemie had started so many things early for a child of her age and size, and that included cutting teeth. Elliott was still feeding her breast milk, but now from a bottle as those little teeth were starting to hurt while nursing, and she was doing well, making the transition over to more solid food. Which would make Illya happier when having to change diapers.

For such a seasoned agent, whom she had thought had seen and experienced it all, she couldn't help but laugh at him when Lourdes' dirty nappies got the best of his gag reflex.

She ladled a bowl of the delicious meat, carrots and potatoes in a savory brown gravy over a bowl of wide noodles for herself. Then debating whether to do the same for Demmy, when he appeared in the kitchen holding what she guessed was the drawing behind his back.

"It's ready Mama." he said. Unlike most children who would be nervous with excitement, Demya Kuryakin was calm, almost placid. "

"Just like his father, "Elliot thought."Do I need to close my eyes?"

"Nooo." He whipped the paper from behind his back, holding it up proudly for his mother to see."

Elliott stepped back, studying it for a second, at first thinking it looked like head of a poodle, only green...muli-tcolor green. Then she smiled, realizing what it was. "Demmy, ye made a map of Ireland for meeee?"

"Do you like it Mama?"

"Oh Demmy, it's beautiful and so..._colorful_. I don't just like it, I _love it._"

"I'm glad Mama, I wasn't sure if you'd know what it was. I didn't have enough color greens to use."

"Not enough, what do ye mean darlin'?'

"Ireland is supposed to have forty shades of green."

Elliott laughed at that. "Right ye are Demmy, it's so beautiful and green and I suppose that ye might think there are that many shades there. Ye don't remember, but when ye were a very wee one, ye and I went ta Ireland for a week."

"Was Papa there too?"

"No I'm afraid Papa...had to work. But someday we'll go back, the four of us this time, maybe I can talk Papa into it being soon? Would ye like that?"

"Yes Mama." he said, handing the drawing to her.

Elliott gave him a big hug and a kiss. "Thank you baby, it's beautiful. Should I put it on the refrigerator?"

"Yes please, that way we can see it all the time." he smiled.

Elliott cleared off a few notes that were stuck to the door with refrigerator magnets, putting the bright green drawing dead center for all to view.

Demya seated himself at the table as his mother set his bowl in front of him, then she watched proudly as he blessed himself.

"Bless us O Lord and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bounty through Christ our Lord. Amen...And please God bring Papa home soon to share in Thy bounty. Amen. Mama, why does Papa have to go away so much and where exactly does he go?"

Elliott wasn't quite prepared for that question, but supposed it was inevitable.

Papa just has to Demmy, his job is important and ye know that. He goes to a lot of different places, he's called you from some of them remember? Trust me he'd be here with ye if he had his way. He misses us when he's gone."

"Is he with Uncle Napoleon?"

"No not this time."

"Where is he?'

"Umm, he's in Europe."

"Will he be close to Ireland?"

"No not exactly, he'll be home in Russia."

"Really?" That seemed to excite the boy. " Will he be calling me from Russia?"

That made her heart sink. "No sweetheart...not this time. He'll be very busy and won't be able to call at all from there. Maybe once he leaves he might be able to call you but I'm not promising, ye understand? And remember ye can't tell anyone where yer father is."

"Yes Mama I remember...I miss him."

"I know darlin', I miss him too." Her voice trailed off for a moment. "Now no more talk, eat yer dinner before it gets cold please?"

Lourdes was babbling away, spooning her food up all by herself but getting more gravy on her bib, tray and hands then into her mouth. La la la la lah, she was singing away." Dem-ah dem-ah la la la." Then she'd burst into a fit of laughter.

Elliott sat lost in thoughts, holding her first spoonful of goulash up, poised to go into her mouth, but it never made it there.

She was worried about her husband and though they had discussed his mission to Russia and his reasons for doing it; she was against it at first but relented, giving into his wishes. She didn't like what he was doing, helping out those feckers at the C.I.A. but she could understand why he felt compelled to do it. It was important enough to him to risk is life...but then he did that every time he was sent out somewhere to do his job.

They never talked about their assignments in detail in the past, and generally used a little linguistic code they had developed to at least tell each other where they were going, but never revealing much more than that. Missions were discussed a bit after the fact, but never before.

She almost wished he hadn't told her, thinking what she _didn't know, wouldn't hurt her._ All she could do was pray that he would come home safe to she and the children.

"Ma-ma Lala Lalaaaaa!" She laughed again, calling her mother back with a splatter of gravy hitting Elliott's face.

"Ye think ye are quite the thing don't ye Miss Lourdes Mary," she finally smiled, wiping the child's face and hands with a washcloth.

"Dah! Ma-ma...mmmm Pa-pa?" The child held her open hands up and seemed to be wanting to know where her father was.

Elliott remained silent, wondering herself the same answer to that question.

.

ref * "The Vengeance is Mine Affair"


	10. Chapter 10

Napoleon amused himself on the flight, between chatting with the stewardesses and watching the in-flight movie, the Oscar nominated _Doctor Doolittle..._not exactly his sort of entertainment, but then he supposed it would be one that Poly and Luci would enjoy when they got a little older. Poly would love the pushmi-pullu, and Luci...Polynesia the parrot. He found himself liking the idea of a floating tropical island though...no need for a boat there, he mused.

He couldn't help thinking for some reason that Mark Slate had an odd resemblance to Rex Harrison, and wondered why he'd never noticed that before. He was never one for musicals but for the duration of the flight, he was a captive audience so to speak.

The stewardesses were of course pretty and quite fetching in their bright blue uniforms and kept his attention more that the film did as he innocently dallied with them..." feels just like the old days", he mused to himself. A little flirtatiousness saw to it that he was well taken care of on a flight, even when he wasn't in first class, which was usually the case.

His meal of salsbury steak and mashed potatoes was palatable enough, but it was the extra helping of apple pie that helped make the meal.

"Thank you Ilsa," he smiled at the blond stewardess who had hovered over him for most of the flight, then chuckled to himself with a quiet groan. "A blond named Ilsa, no doubt 36-24- 36." He calculated her measurements as he leaned out watching her walk up the aisle. "Sigh."

After he ate, he closed his eyes trying to catch some winks to ease the jet-lag that would hit him in Germany.

He slept longer than he anticipated, being woken much later when the pilot's announcement came over the PA that they were beginning their descent and gave the weather forecast for Frankfurt and Berlin... rainy and cold. It was followed by the usual chatter about altitude, and the seat belt sign finally lit and the warning bell gently _dinged_ the passengers attention to buckle up.

Napoleon checked his watch, noting they were slightly ahead of schedule, as the plane touched down for a smooth landing, then once it taxied to a stop at the terminal; he gathered up his silver briefcase and then then waited for the other passengers to deplane as was his usual custom. He was the last off, so as to not get caught up in the slow shuffle of his fellow passengers moving along the walk way...one never knew when trouble would strike.

And just like old times, one of those lovely stewardesses passed her telephone number to him jotted down on a cocktail napkin when he had ordered a scotch on the rock, and now a slip of paper was discreetly shoved into hand by another of the ladies as he exited the plane.

But unlike the past when he would have pocketed the notes in anticipation of spending the evening with one or both of them, now once in the terminal he crumpled the papers up and tossed them in the trash with a sigh.

He scanned the area quickly, looking for anyone suspicious as well as for a driver from headquarters who was supposed to be meeting him there to take him to the offices in West Berlin.

He gabbed his well-worn suit case as it came around on the turn-style, noticing a blond haired man dressed in a black suit and tie holding a pick-up sign. For a split second he thought it was his partner.

_Anthony Solamente_, that was the name written on the white square of paper that he held and that being Napoleon's cover name. He walked up to the fellow, obviously a junior agent and flashed him a smile along with his ID, to which the young man whispered.

"Welcome, Monsieur Solo," I am Hervé Bouchard, then he showed his own yellow ID card to the senior agent. And with that Napoleon was escorted to a waiting car.

The weather was fairly unpredictable in Germany, one day it could be sunny and the next day cold and raining. Today since it was the cold and raining option, Napoleon turned up the collar to his trench coat, fighting off a shiver as he stepped from the terminal with Hervé to the waiting the red Ford Taunus hardtop coupé that was parked curbside.

"Nice wheels," he crinkled his nose as he leaned towards his escort as he spoke quietly. " A little bright for espionage work don't you think?"

"Not really Monsieur Solo, there are quite a few with this color on the road, very popular this year so we will blend in nicely."

"Oh, oookay." Napoelon answered warily, then climbed into the passenger seat. It would be a fairly long ride and he pulled a folder from his silver brief case, preparing to go over the notes regarding his assignment.

Communications had picked up coded transmissions from their Berlin office, and were still trying to decipher them and at the same time finally discovering some of the File 40 security protocols had been compromised. Obviously someone was sharing UN.C.L.E. secrets and that was a no-no.

It was unsure if the information was going to Thrush or if it was the work of East German intelligence, the STASI. Though It didn't matter who the intelligence was being leaked to, only that the leak be plugged and done so permanently.

Napoleon had bogus batches of information to plant, hoping up to set up the culprit by process of elimination, which unfortunately would take a little time as it was suspected that it was someone in the Section IV intelligence and communications office. Each suspect employee in that section would each be given separate bits of intelligence, and as soon as it was transmitted, he would know who the culprit was instantly. Simple enough.

Hervé was a jittery sort of fellow, and liked to talk, and lived up to the meaning of his last name...a French nickname for someone with a big mouth. He'd only been a Section II agent for six months and at the rate his mouth was going, he might not make it to a year. Being talkative in their business generally got you in trouble . At the moment he was somewhat excited that he was riding in a car with _the_ Napoleon Solo, as he called him, going on about the _legendary _ Solo and Kuryakin team.

Napoleon found that a little amusing and it made him smile in an embarrassing sort of way, guessing that his reputation preceded him, but then it also pushed his worried thoughts of Illya to forefront.

He let the young fellow babble away for most of the trip, then begged off opting to take a nap along the way, feeling confident that Hervé could keep them out of trouble.

The car pulled up in front of headquarters five and a half hours later and Hervé still filled with enthusiasm opened the boot to get his passenger's suitcase from it. Napoleon stepped out into the rain that just seemed to be letting up, but it was still quite cold and he could see his breath in the air.

Hervé was right, as Napolen saw several of the red coupés drive up and down the road as well as Trabants and Citröens; Hervé was right. The cars distracted him for a moment as he stepped out to the sidewalk, not watching where he was going and walked right into a man moving quickly past him. He was wearing a black leather jacket, and was looking a little cold and damp.

"What the...pardon me," Solo apologized, then realized the auburn-haired man he was addressing was a dead ringer for Kuryakin, but with red hair...just like Andropov.

"Illya?" he whispered warily.

"Umm nein, sie irren sich_no you are mistaken," the man said in perfect German, then looked him straight and winked with a brown eye.

Napoleon stopped himself from smiling, though the eyes and hair were different, he knew it was indeed his partner.

"Nun wein sie mir verzeihen, Ich muss raus aus dieser regen. Auf weidersehen_now if you will pardon me, I must get out of this rain. I am late to cross the border. Good bye."

Solo watched as Illya continued walking quickly down the Freidrichstrasse carrying a worn duffle slung over his shoulder. Kuryakin crossed the street then turned right on to Köhlerstrasse and was no doubt heading in the direction of the Berlin wall and the Brandenburg gate.

Napoleon knew better than to have said anything else, and now at least knew that Illya was definitely deep undercover, disguised as his late brother and where he was at least headed for the moment. But that confirmation gave him a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

.

Illya cursed himself silently asking why he had to let himself walk past U.N.C.L E. headquarters, it was a foolish thing to have done on his part but then supposed that it was emotions coming to the surface as he had suddenly felt the need to see something safe and familiar, something that was a part of him one last time before he crossed into East Berlin.

He had to get out of that Citröen as the last part of the motorway into Berlin was cobbled, and the ride jarred his insides something terrible. Controlling shifting the gears with the need for double clutching was a nightmare and he was glad at least to be on foot, getting some fresh air and just found himself on the street where the agent entrance was located.

East Berlin, the thought of it gave Illya chills as it was like a vacuum that seemed to suck the life out of him. He hated the place that much. His most recent visit to that grey smudge of a city had marked the beginning of a living nightmare for him and nearly resulted in his demise.*

For a moment those memories let his fear rise, as he recalled the abuse he had suffered at the hands of Karl Voelker and the Stasi...all because of the C.I.A. Now he was helping the Americans again and for a moment he asked himself if this was really worth doing? The taste of bile filled his mouth as his nervousness rose within him. This would be his first major test of his cover and of his nerves and would not be like that trivial questioning back in Bern.

He took a deep breath, thanking the powers that be that allowed him to literally bump into his partner. The odds of that happening; he walking past at that exact moment in time were astronomical...Napoleon being there, he guessed on assignment. This to him was a positive sign, but he took a cold comfort in it.

Though a chance meeting, that fleetest of moments when their eyes met did his heart good to know that his partner was close by; that knowledge was suddenly reassuring... not that he could dare contact him but just knowing he was closer helped Illya's apprehension subside.

Napoleon would no doubt be willing to help him if he got into trouble, but if he were in the hands of either the Stasi or KBG, he was a dead man, as surely this time it would be either the guillotine or firing squad for him, but unlike in his nightmares, Viktor Karkoff was no longer alive to torment him nor was Karl Voelker.* He was sure there would be new, unfamiliar people to vex Illya Kuryakin.

He continued down the Freidrichstrasse, not daring to turn back to look at Napoleon, yet his intuition told him that his partner was still watching him, then he turned the corner onto Köherstrasser heading toward Kadettenweg. There he hailed one of the black taxis to take him the rest of the way. He called to the driver to stop, dropping him off just before they reached the gate, there he would cross by foot.

The necessity of leaving the Citröen behind did not make him happy, but the gearshift being a sort of _push me pull you _affair on the dashboard had seen better days, and he probably would not get much farther in the little car. It had been a chilly trip with the heater not working and besides it having registration papers in France and French plates would make the vehicle stand out that much more. Given the fact that it was a stolen one did not help either. He would not be able to travel to the U.S.S.R. without it drawing attention to him, so it had to go.

He was sure he could obtain other transportation once across the border, what...he had no idea, he hoped another car or if needed he would take a train depending on the schedules. But trains were notorious for not running on time, especially ones heading away from East Berlin.

Illya prepared himself for what he could expect once on the other side of the wall, as no doubt would no doubt be presented to the resident KGB agent monitoring the Gate, once the Stasi were satisfied with him being who he said he was. "I am Kiril Andropov," he repeated over and over to himself.

Here it would be no doubt be a trip to one of the many Stasi sites within the city, though he hoped it would not be the compound where he had been held prisoner by Voelker...where ever it was; it would still mean danger and there he would no doubt be questioned again.

Though the KGB carried great weight, it was still Stasi territory. If his cover held, then there would be no _infighting_ for his custody as he hoped he wouldn't be a prisoner, that was if this all worked. Unlike last time...after Voelker had his fun, he was turned over to the KGB and Viktor Karkoff.**

He fought off a shiver at that thought, chastising himself for letting those memories get to him. "That was then, this is now. Everything will be fine," he reassured himself.

Once cleared by Stasi security, he would then have to report to KGB liaison officer at the _Kartshortst Rezidentura_, a Stasi compound where they maintained their central office.

The Stasi were his first major hurdle to cross, and given the preponderance of the secret police, it was ludicrous to think that he would not be questioned by them. And for that reason he readied himself, suppressing his emotions to keep them hidden and under control as the Stasi were masters of interrogation and would look for the minutest of reactions; watching the eyes and face, and his body language as well.

To ensure the people of East Germany remained submissive to Communist rule, the country was saturated with agents of the Stasi, there were more spies there than under any other totalitarian government.

The numbers broken down to a minimum showed there was one Stasi secret policeman per 166 East Germans, and when regular informers were added, the ratio became one spy for every 66 citizens and one informer per 6.5 citizens. So it was spies watching spies within their own city...not to mention the large number of foreign operatives that had infiltrated the country as well.

It was a place were one was constantly under surveillance, with 100,000 telephone taps to West Berlin and West Germany that alone was a round the clock job for thousands of officers.

If one did the math, it was easy to presume that there could be one Stasi informer present in any party of ten to twelve dinner guests. Their long-reaching arm was felt in every aspect of German life, with officers posted in every major industrial plant. every school, University, hospitals.

Even the home-lives of the German were not sacred.

There was at least one tenant in every apartment building who was a designated informer, so the comings and goings of all residents and their guests were noted and reported. The churches both Protestant and Catholic had their informers, nothing was sacred to the Stasi as even the confessionals were full of eavesdropping devices. Religion was still frowned upon, but it had it's uses to the secret police.

There were holes bored in apartment and hotel walls, filming their suspects with special cameras and listening equipment. Even bathrooms were invaded by Stasi voyeurs. Nothing was sacred to the secret police, and like their predecessors, the Nazi Gestapo, the Stasi maintained a sinister code of German meticulousness.

A city based on lies and deceit...a city of spies was a true epithet for this place and now he was returning to it.

"You can do this," he whispered to himself.

He assumed his role whole-heartedly. Kiril took a deep breath as he approached the gate, straightening his shoulders and holding his head up confidently. He got in line, waiting his turn to step up to the booth, pulling out his documentation to present to the soldiers.

KGB agents crossed frequently whether under cover or not, in this case

the name and likeness of Kiril Andropov was on the clipboards of the border guards as he had expected. The border guard asked him to wait, then returned with a man in a tan trench coat and fedora. Stasi.

The travel papers and passport were in order, and he had taken on his brother's demeanor completely, and as long as Illya Kuryakin _was_ Kiril Andropov, he knew that he could convince his komrades that he was legitimate.

Kiril maintained a confident, but not quite arrogant countenance, but sharpened his superior attitude once his KGB credentials were presented.

He had no doubt they were all ready for his arrival, but who knew what they had in store for him.

.

* ref "The Gambit Affair" ** ref "Such Stuff as Dreams are Made On"


	11. Chapter 11

The layout was different, but the walls, lighting and atmosphere...the feel of U.N.C.L.E. Berlin was the same as New York, and nearly every main office of the organization for that matter.

One difference here though gave Napoleon Solo a bit of a surprise as he was greeted by a male receptionist at the Security entrance.

"Hmmm, things are changing?" He noted to himself and was just a tinge disappointed that there was no comely Fraulein for him to flirt with. That was his bit of fun, even though he was a married man, he still liked to get away with it. It was harmless and sometimes it got him insider information that helped him have the upper hand on things going on at another office.

"Guten tag Herr Solo, Herr Rheinhardt is expecting you in his conference room. Take the main corridor then..."

"Danke, but I know the way," he smiled as he pinned his badge to his lapel himself, then headed immediately to the office of the Station Chief, Dieter Rheinhardt; the two of them went way back back together for years in the organization.

"Napoleon, welcome back," said Dieter Rheinhardt spoke in English as the American sauntered into his conference room. Unlike Waverly's it contained a long table and chairs and the remnants from the days of Harry Beldon were all but gone, save the heavily ornate carved desk that had been relegated to the corner of the room.

"It's been a while since you were here my friend and as I recall it wasn't under pleasant circumstances? Your partner is well? I haven't seen sight of him since that awful incident with the Stasi and KGB."

"Yes that was a trying episode, but Illya's fine and I'm happy to say has recovered fully."

"Damned C.I.A. nearly got the man killed," said Rheinhardt, " I just hope our interaction with them is kept to a minimum, if not non-existent. They just can't be trusted. Perhaps with this new policy of payment for services rendered will make them think twice enh? I was surprised when the memo came from Waverly regarding it, brilliant idea."

"Amen to that." Napoleon sighed, as thoughts of Illya being at the C.I.A.'s mercy again came to mind. "Now to the matter at hand."

"Yes, we first noticed these transmissions coming from our communications division a few weeks ago just a few short bursts at first, and then they got a bit longer up to a minute, but no longer so far. Unfortunately the terminal from which they emanated was an open one, so our people didn't have to log in to use it, so we can't tell who was using it at the time. Security cameras were strangely out at the time."

Napoleon didn't question an open terminal, as all operations maintained one for emergency messages to send information to agents in the field, or just for when things got backed up.

"You have the exact times of these unauthorized transmissions?"

"Yes we do and have since discovered the were being sent into the Eastern part of the city, no doubt it's the Stasi up to no good again."

"Have any unauthorized personnel been into that section?"

"No, only Section IV people working their assigned shifts."

"Same agents on all the suspect shifts?"

"No not all, these are the names of those who were present all four times the transmissions took place," he said handing a sheet of blue paper to Solo.

"Emile, Yeung and Fraulinger, " said Rheinhardt, "All are seasoned employees. Emile has been with us eight years. Yeung six and Fraulinger five years. You think one of them could have turned on us to Thrush?"

"Turned or one of them was already duplicitous when they came to U.N.C.L.E. possibly as a Stasi plant, a sleeper of sorts?"

"Hmm I didn't think of that. So what do you have planned?"

Napoleon smiled. " A little trickery of our own Dieter." He removed three sheets of paper from his briefcase, handing them over to the station Chief.

"These contain three different messages. I want you to give one to each of the suspects, and monitor all the terminals, not just the open one. Give them the instructions to send the information to New York, scrambled top secret."

Rheinhardt looked at the papers, seeing nothing but numbers. "Codes?"

"No, that's the beauty of it, it's just random numbers. All three will no doubt transmit their assigned documents to New York, but the guilty party will get onto to the open terminal to transmit what they think is a top secret encoded document. And the document will make our guilty party stand out from anyone else who uses that terminal.

"The number sequence will give us the guilty party's identity and the receiving party, presumably the Stasi will be pulling their hair out trying to decipher the code, when there is in fact no code as these are simply random numbers. That, I think will keep them busy...and aggravated for a while." Napoleon smiled wickedly."

"Oh you are bad Solo, very bad. So are we eventually going to let them know we caught their agent?"

"Nah, they'll guess it when they stop getting any transmissions. But, going forward we'll have to do a better vetting process for support staff, perhaps medical could get involved on this one to see if there's been any prior conditioning, between them and R&D, the Old Man hopes to prevent anything like this from happening again."

"For now, " agreed Rheinhardt, "but we can't defend against everything, so who knows what else our adversaries will come up with in the future?"

.

"Tovarishch Andropov." The man in the trench coat spoke coldly. "Vy poidete so mnoi. Takim obrazom_ you will come with me. This way." He gestured with his arm for Kiril to follow him to a small office behind the buildings of the Gate proper. They were followed by an armed guard.

It was a small wooden structure, painted grey that was larger than a guardhouse, but not by much, and architecturally was not constructed to blend with the surrounding buildings. They wanted people to see it and know that it was used for questioning.

Illya did not let that fact make him jump to any conclusions. It was standard procedure for an armed escort to take anyone there to be interviewed. But the fact that there was only one person escorting him and not at the end of a barrel of a gun, he took as a good sign but more encouraging was that he was not being relieved of his own weapons.

It would be a simple conversation no doubt, and then he would be taken to another site to be questioned further. These were things that he had prepared himself for.

"Syad'te tovarishch." He offered Kiril a seat in front of the sterile grey metal desk a he removed his had and coat. The chair was equally as plain, and cold as Illya sat in it. The fact that there were no cuffs or restraints present at the moment was a bit of a relief.

"Coffee? You look rather cold and damp."

"Nyet pozhaluĭsta." He answered, keeping his hands relaxed on the arm rests.

"Nu khorosho_very well, then," he said, pouring himself a cup from a stainless steel electric percolator into a simple white porcelain cup and saucer.

"I am Kapitan Borislav Darashkevich, the KGB officer posted at this border crossing. I have few questions for you Komrade Andropov."

He looked Illya directly in the eyes, then studied him carefully.

"Your last assignment what was it?"He asked as he casually thumbed through a clipboard in front of him on the desk.

"I was assigned as security detail to the Soviet Ambassador to the United Nations for a gala reception for several new member nations. But surely Komrade, my records show this already?" Illya stated with a cool composure.

"Oh they do, but they also state that you went missing that night at the United Nations after an incident there and were presumed dead. You had been gone for nearly two months."

"Well it is obvious I am not dead is it?" Illya sneered.

"Yes, that is rather interesting revelation Komrade. And why is it you went off radar for two months? According to Directorate you were not on covert assignment. So where were you all this time?" Darashkevich smiled.

"Running for my life."

"Ah yes, this is what the recent reports say. Yet you had no time to contact your superiors while on the run?"

"Nyet." Kiril kept it brief, as this man was an underling and did not need to further details...those would be disseminated to his superiors.

"Very well then, it is best for you to report to the main office, there Colonel Lesnichy the representative of political intelligence Directorate will interr..speak to you himself. So Komrade we go now." Darashkevich threw on his coat and and hat again as he waved Andropov towards a rear door.

This one was dancing around the facts and knew more than he was letting on." Illya thought. " The directorate knew that Illya Kuryakin, a perceived traitor had gone after Andropov and surely Waverly had leaked that Kuryakin was dead?"

"This seemed to be what everyone was doing as the phrase _dancing in the dark_ suddenly took on a different meaning for him... was it perhaps they already suspected who he really was. Had someone detected the finite physical differences between he and his brother's appearance? Did he do or say something wrong in Bern?"

"Stop being so paranoid," Illya thought to himself, banishing his nerves. "This is not the time to start second guessing yourself. I am Kiril Andropov, I am Andropov." He repeated this as his litany over and over again, fighting against his concerns and the fear that gnawed at his edges like a hungry little animal.

"Die macht des shicksals, vlasty sud'by, the power of fate, " he repeated to himself first in German, then Russian. Yes he was in the hands of _the Fates, _their powers deciding a man's destiny. But he would not let them control him... not this time, he was the master of his own fate. His cover would hold and he would complete his mission. Period. That decision instantly drove back that annoying creature that had been clawing at him.

Darashkevish and a German guard escorted him to a red _Trabant_, parked in not far from the the dead zone of the Gate. The boxy little car referred to as the _Trabi, _and the name inspired by the Soviet _Sputnik. _The driver snapped to attention as soon as he saw them coming.

"Red again? And interesting change for the better in this grey city." Illya smiled to himself as he climbed into the car and was driven off towards the Unter den Linden, then after an unexpected turn, he became concerned.

"Where are we going, this is not the way to the Karlshorst Rezidentura?" he asked his escort.

"To the Hohenschöenhauser."

That sent chills up the spine of Illya Kuryakin, they were not taking him to the main office of the KGB. They were taking him to Stasi headquarters which happened to not be one of the eight Directorates where KGB maintained a presence, and he was sure that was deliberate.

And it was the one place he had hoped he would not be taken... the compound where he had been brought as prisoner by the Stasi on his last visit to East Berlin. He tried not to let them see as he swallowed hard, hoping that he had not blanched at the mentioning of that name.

The red car stood out in a sea of drab neutral colors and it headed down the road as other automobiles surrounded them. Grey cars in a grey city.

"The city of shadows and lies," Illya repeated mentally, and he prayed that his own shadows and lies would be accepted.

There was silence for the first few minutes of the drive, then one of his escorts turned, looking at him as he sat in the back seat. "So my UNCLE sends his greetings to you and asks how your trip is going."

"Your Uncle?" Illya asked suspiciously, as it was impossible that he knew the man's relation and this had to be code...or a trick of some sort."

"Yes, you know my _Uncle Dieter?"_The man's voice inflection changed. "Don't worry the car is not bugged, we checked first. "You probably don't remember me? Bruno Dresner from headquarters in West Berlin, and this is my partner Willy Beyer. Mr. Waverly directed Rheinhardt to have us check up on you to make sure everything is alright and if not, then we have orders to extract you."

"Waverly's exact words to Rheinhardt were, "_to the devil with the mission and the C.I.A._" Beyer added.

Illya looked closely at Dresner, recognizing the man once his attention had been drawn past the false moustache as he studied the face.

"No I am fine and everything is proceeding as well as can be expected. Once I make it past the Stasi, the KGB at the Karlshorst will be the true test of my cover, so we will see. That is if I make it to the Karlshorst?"

Dresner handed him a small silver disc. "It will send out a short range emergency signal to us if you have a problem that you think you can't get out of, then we'll come to get you. I know we're not your partner Mr. Solo, but I think we'll do in a pinch," Bruno smiled.

"Thank you that is good to know, "he said accepting the communications disc. Illya felt reassured that the Old Man was keeping a watchful eye on him." Will there be anyone else from U.N.C.L.E. contacting me along the way, as Waverly never informed me of this."

"No sir, we're it. Once you leave Germany, you unfortunately are on your own."

Illya bit his lower lip as he nodded silently at that news, though for the moment this brief contact did lift his spirits.

The journey was short, taking only twenty minutes. He exited the car with his _escorts_, but at least was not made to feel like he was a prisoner...not like last time when he was taken against his will along the winding alley ways, still eerily empty with their looming grey concrete walls, topped with concertina wire.

The last time he was here he had been dragged half-conscious to his destination, and as he entered the Stasi headquarters he glanced at the familiar shield above the door. It was beginning to look a little weather-worn but it still sent it's cold message _Shild und Schwert den Partie...the shield and sword of the party, _the ruling Socialist Unity Party of Germany.

It was there beneath that ominous emblem that Dresner and Beyer parted ways with him as they returned to their car, there they waited under the premise of taking a look at the engine as they claimed it was making an odd noise. At least they would be nearby if Kuryakin needed help, but in their minds, and extraction from Stasi headquarters would probably be suicide. They looked at each other, and nodded their agreement to do their duty none the less, if called upon by their Russian coworker.

Kiril's weapons were again surrendered as a matter of procedure, then he was taken rather casually down the hall to be interviewed, but what that entailed, he had no idea.

It was Illya Kuryakin who had to compose himself as he found that he was put in that same interrogation room he had been in last time, now seated in that same chair staring at the familiar table and lamp. The only difference this time was that he was not in handcuffs, and at the moment was presumably not a prisoner of the Stasi.

A man stepped into the room, seating himself behind the table facing the Russian. But Illya reminded himself this man was not Karl Voelker and that helped him steel himself for what was to come. " I am Kiril Andropov, I am Kiril Andropov," he repeated in his head.

He then reminded himself of the research of Albert Mehrabian on the science of body language that he'd been studying. No doubt the Stasi would have read that research as well, though not an exact science he found much of Mehrabian's conclusions valid, as no doubt did this Stasi interrogator.

"Willkommen zurück Komrade Andropov." The man spoke softly in German, welcoming him back.

Illya kept himself from reacting at the statement. Was he referring to his last visit there, or Kiril's, and hoped it was the latter.

"So Komrade tell me what happened to you?"

"Firstly, you know who I am, but I do not know you Komrade." Kiril said.

"Forgive me, how rude of me? I am so accustomed to interrogating a prisoner in this room that I sometimes forget myself, yes some manners are called for. Such is our line of work is it not? I am Colonel Wilhelm Richter of the First Department, second Chief of the Directorate for internal affairs. Now back to my question."

"Komrade Colonel, I was being pursued by an U.N.C.L.E. agent, one Illya Kuryakin...a traitor to the people of the Soviet Union. It took me weeks before I was able to lose my pursuers and escape to Canada, where I boarded a freighter to return home. I landed in England, then boarded another ship to Marseilles, where I made contact with KGB."

"Hmm a very interesting story, tied up nicely in a ribbon is it not?" Richter smiled coldly.

"You do not believe me?"

"Let us say, I have some doubts. Why did you not contact the Soviet Embassy, you were a member of a detail guarding the Ambassador were you not."

"As I said, I was being pursued by U.N.C.L.E. My departure and arrivals can be easily verified. I can provide you with the names of the ships I was on, where they were docked. Even ship's manifest if you so desire."

"That will not be necessary Komrade, continue with the narrative of your journey please?"

Kiril slyly smiled. "U.N.C.L.E. was relentless in their pursuit of me, I could barely stay at a location for more than a few hours before they hunted me down. I was not able to get near the embassy as their agents were keeping it under constant surveillance and no doubt both U.N.C.L.E. as well as the Americans had everything tapped, making communications impossible. I was for all intents and purposes on my own."

"And why was were they after you with such a _vengeance?"_

"That Herr Colonel I am not at liberty to say as it is KGB business."

"So you _were_ on another assignment then?"

"Nein, Herr Colonel, I was not and that is all that I am able to say on the matter." Kiril crossed his arms in front of his chest; deliberately telegraphing his defensiveness with his body language.

"And what if I told you that I have clearance?"

"It would make no difference as I report to the First chief Directorate of Komitet Gosudarstevnnoy Bezopasnosti and no one else."

"True true Komrade, but you cannot blame a fellow operative for trying, please I hope I did not offend your sense of duty to your motherland?"

"No offense taken Herr Colonel. Are we done here? I still need to report to KGB liaison office at the Karlshorst Rezidentura." Illya prompted him, hoping that it was not pushing his luck.

"Yes of course you do Komrade Andropov, " Richter said, still wary of the Russian.

"May I impose upon the assistance of the Stasi to give me a lift there?"

"But of course," Richter smiled. This to him was a good sign that the man before him was legitimate, as an enemy operative would have preferred to be on his own, enabling him to disappear into the city.

"But of course Komrade, I think a little inter-organizational cooperation could be arranged."

"Danke Herr Colonel." Illya smiled. Though far from being out of the woods, his cover had passed scrutiny three times so far and that was a good sign.

He was escorted from the compound again being accompanied by a guard and driver, this time leaving in a black Audi. This time it was not Beyer and Dresner.

The Karlshorst Rezedentura was located in a building within a compound and bound by four streets, Bodenmaiser Weg, Zwieseler Strasse, Dewetalle and Arberstrasse. But was accessible by only two entrances, one on Dewatalle and Arberstrasse, one may drive into the area through Dewetalle and from the south through the entrance at a control point on the Rheinstrasse, that was directly at the intersection of the Rheinstrasse and Koepenicki Allle. This is the route the driver chose.

The ride to the Karlshorst was a relatively direct and short one within the compound, it was a was a cold and foreboding multistory structure, with architecture was that simple and almost featureless, a functional concrete building so typical of the era of Soviet influence on it's sister countries.

Its multiple floors and entrance covered by seven tall, plain columns supporting an eave in front of the main entrance. There were a number of high antenna masts on the roof, all connected by cables, that was the most interesting thing about the entire edifice, but also made it easily identifiable.

Once inside the stairwell and walls were painted half in a distasteful shade of mustard, topped by the usual neutral grey. As Illya exited with his escorts to the desired floor, he could see that the corridors ran the entire length of the long building, making it seem nearly endless.

The sides of the corridor were lined on both sides with door after door, leading to what sort of rooms, he had no idea. As they past one doorway a KGB operative exited it, and as Illya looked inside he could see that the walls were padded and what looked like a pool of blood on the floor beside and empty metal chair.

Was this done for his benefit? He knew all the interrogation techniques.

If he was going to indeed be interrogated, he at least knew what to expect. The exploration of suggestability...letting him see that pool of blood. that was a non-verbal signal that hinted at his cooperation would be in his best interests. Then break him down little by little, attacking his self worth, implying at first the consequences for non-cooperation. There wasn't much they could do to shock or frighten him, and he was ready if interrogation was what they had in store for him. He was a master interrogator himself and knew what to expect...at least he hoped he did?

As ready as he was, again his fear itched at the back of his neck, making his hairs stand on head, but he refused to scratch. He would not let his feeling of apprehension break his concentration. "I am Kiril Andropov, I _am_ Kiril."

He was lead to an room near the far end of the building, and asked to be seated in a simple metal chair. The furnishings were utilitarian, showing nothing of the personality of the man who occupied what seemed to be an office. There was a desk blotter a lamp, and on the wall were two photographs that of Joseph Stalin and Leonid Brezhnev.

They let him sit and wait...though it was not a typical interrogation room, he was sure they were going to interrogate him. The first step, let the subject sit and sweat, let him work himself up, anticipating what was to come. He estimated they let him sit there for at least a half hour before the door finally opened.

Finally a man dressed in the uniform of a Lt. Colonel entered and Kiril rose immediately, saluting as he stood at attention.

"Sadites' tovarishch Andropov_ be seated Komrade." The man spoke with an air of certain authority in his voice.

He stood at least six feet tall, dressed in his Soviet uniform and when he removed his cap, Illya could see his hair was dark, with dark piercing eyes that looked as if he had some Kazak blood.

I am Colonel Mickhail Lesnichy of the First Directorate. He flashed his identification and a wore gold plated medal that was instantly recognizable as a KGB 50th anniversary badge with it's distinctive Russian enamel work, one that was awarded to high ranking members of the KGB. He then withdrew a silver cigarette case from his trouser pocket, making sure the Kiril could see the engraving. _To Komrade Lesnichy for dedicated fighting against enemies of the dictatorship of the proletariat from P.P. OGPU of the Leningrad Military district._

Many of the KBG officers in Germany had identity papers issued by the DDR foreign ministry stating that the bearer was a member of the U.S.S.R. embassy in the DDR, so between his medals and other paraphernalia this Lesnichy was covered from every angle.

The man was older than he first surmised, as the OGPU, was the original secret police formed from the _Cheka,_ they were the one's who were responsible for the formation of the gulag system and surely took his grandfather Alexander Kuryakin to his death in Solovki. As the power of the the OGPU grew it became incorporated into the Peoples Commissariat for Internal Affairs otherwise known as the NKVD and then became the GUGB until it reached it's final transformation into the Committee for State Security, known as the KGB.

"Yes, " Illya thought, "this one has been around a long time, and probably knows all the tricks." He would have to watch every word he said, every nuance of body language in order not to betray himself to this old and cunning _Kamchat-skii medved'.._. _Ursus arcturos, _the brown bear and master of the Kamchatka Oblast. He could be deadly once an a man was within his grasp, and this was one bear the Illya was not about to let get his claws into him.

"Sigareta Komrade?" The Colonel offered, flipping open his cigarette case, making sure that his guest saw the inscruption.

"Nyet, spacibo," Kiril declined with a wave of his hand. He forced himself to relax, though all the while he expected a grueling questioning. It had the potential to indeed become an interrogation either way...dates, facts, times and witnesses would all have to be given if it went that far. Yes, he needed to have all his _ducks in a row. _And he did, he was ready for this.

Illya reaffirmed his resolve, banishing all his emotions. This was it.

Lesnichy sat on the edge of his steel-grey desk, turning his lamp to shine in Andropov's eyes.

"Is this a debriefing Komrade Colonel or an interrogation?" Kiril spoke up.

"What do you think it is Komrade?" The Colonel flashed an almost feral smile at him.

Kiril Nickovich Andropov did not flinch.


	12. Chapter 12

Solo and Rheinhardt sat at a control alcove identical to the one in Alexander Waverly's office. There was a small video screen in front of them, the images on it were also being viewed by Section V Security on a screen in their secure office. They hadn't been informed as to the reason for the surveillance, and were simply observing and recording it.

It had been hours now since the dummy messages had been sent as instructed by the three subjects they were observing; each transmitted from the terminals where they had been assigned, but none of them went near the open communications terminal.

There were however at least another half dozen support staff members who did, when Napoleon and Dieter realized that the bogus classified intelligence from all three documents had been transmitted.

"Was zur hölle?" Rheinhardt cursed.

"What the hell is right Dieter." Napoleon agreed.

They now had an entire group of nine suspects to look into instead of three. The time of the transmissions would normally have been the first and only clue needed, as to who was on the terminal at that time, but suddenly that record did not exist. The terminal seemed to scrambling the time stamp on the messages, not indicating the true time when any messages had been sent. Then upon further investigation, it seemed there had been other encoded classified intelligence in six transmissions among the standard calls going out and coming in from field agents.

"So now we're looking at nine possible moles?" Rheinhardt flopped back into his desk chair. He was incredulous at those numbers. "How is this possible? They were all vetted by U.N.C.L.E. and too many of them are long-term employees. Could there be that many dissatisfied enough to have sold out their loyalty to the organization... surely they all can't be plants? Could we have multiple sell-out to both TH.R.U.S.H as well as the East?"

Napoleon seated himself gracefully in the chair in front of the desk.

"Dieter, this is not good, not good at all. We may have to shut down operations here. If there's this many leaks in communications, then there could be just as many moles in records and who knows if your field operatives have been compromised."

He stopped himself, letting go a long sigh of frustration. "And we can't communicate this information to New York, otherwise the guilty parties could be tipped off. We can't risk using an outside land-line as no doubt the Stasi's reach with wire taps go too far into West Berlin. And who knows if there's any Section III agents or field operatives who could be duplicitous."

He stood up, walking toward the window and looking down at the busy street below, his memory drifting back to an image of Harry Beldon getting out of a limousine dressed in a fur _ushanka_,a fur trimmed coat with two gorgeous women, one on each of his arms. Illya was standing there watching with him from the window, and commented about Harry doing everything a good agent shouldn't do and he was still successful in the espionage business...Illya.

Napoleon closed his eyes for a moment in an attempt to refocus himself. Then he made the pronouncement that he was not happy about. "We're going to have to shut down this office. There's no choice."

"But Napoleon, we can find..."

"No, it may be too big a problem. We can't risk it." He paused a minute, still willing to try something before resorting to such an extreme action. It would be his call and he knew it, so it had to be the right one.

"Alright look, we need to bring your CEA and his second in on this, but only if you think they're clean?"

"I would stake my life on it." Dieter smiled. "Willy Beyer and Bruno Dresner are completely loyal but at the moment they are out in the field on assignment in East Berlin observing a C.I.A. operation. Something Waverly asked me to have them do."

That sent up red flags to Napoleon instantly. The news bringing a smile to his face as he realized the Old Man was keeping an eye on Illya just in case.

"Okay fine, we don't read them in on this yet. Leave them in the field for now. Waverly's request takes precedent. I need the personnel files of your top ten field operatives your communications and Security divisions heck throw in the clerical and secretarial staff too...and a big pot of coffee. This is going to be a long night."

"Napoleon that is over a hundred people?"

"And what about Hervé?" Napoleon asked, "Can he be trusted?"

"The young man likes to talk, but that is due to his enthusiasm. He is completely enamored at the idea of being an U.N.C.L.E. agent. We can trust him, that I am sure of." Dieter said." He also happens to be my sister's son." He smiled. "Sometimes nepotism can be a good thing."

"Good, bring him in on this. We need to go through all your personnel records with a fine tooth comb. Any other family members working here that I should know about Dieter?" Napoleon asked warily.

Rheinhardt cringed. " Yes I have two cousins and a niece in the secretarial pool."

"Bring them in then...again as long you're sure they can be trusted."

"Napoleon, you impune the honor of my family?"

"Sorry, I didn't mean it to sound that way."

"Sehr gut, dann_ very well then. You realize this is going to be a monumental task my friend?"

"Well it's either try this or close headquarters, which option would you prefer, this is after all your office?"

Rheinhardt made his choice. " April Dancer and Mark Slate are be due to report here this afternoon, we can recruit them as well. But tell me, what is it we will be looking for?"

"Other than the fact that these nine people work together in communications, I want to look for anything that they might have in common with each other as well as anyone else...even if it seems the most insignificant thing."

"Mein Gott, that is going to be like looking for a pin in the hair."

"That's needle in the hay-stack Dieter." The malaproprism instantly sent Napoleon's thoughts back to Illya, wondering if the Russian was alright.

.

The Colonel turned the light away from Kiril's face. "My apologies Komrade, " he laughed. " This is of course a debrief, surely you know that, we are brothers in arms against a common foe, just having a chat. Now please tell me your tale and leave no details uncovered.

Lesnichy crossed his legs, then locked his hands together holding his knee, as he leaded forward.

"Explore the subjects suggestiveness, lure him into being receptive," Illya reminded himself of the first step of interrogation. "Chat my zhopa," he thought to himself. Lesnichy's body language, the leg that was crossed pointed to him, and the leaning in both showed his interest, but the interlocked hands on the knee, showed that he was not being truly open.

Illya knew he needed to control his own body movement, a tilt of the head the wrong way could signal that he was lying. He had to make sure he was not overly defensive, better go on the offensive to portray himself as an innocent. He had to face the Colonel directly and remember not to turn his head or body away from him.

"Keep your hands relaxed and to yourself Kuryakin," he reminded himself silently, "do not touch anything. No I am not lying, I am Kiril Nickovich Andropov and what I say is the truth." Illya maintained that thought, he was now living the role like a method actor, not just playing the part of is brother.

Kiril repeated his cover story word for word, explaining that Kuryakin hounded him mercilessly and as well as recounting his convoluted escape and arrival in Marseilles.

"So the traitor Illya Kuryakin had it in for you? Why is that?" The Colonel rose from his chair then sat at edge of his his desk facing Kiril with his fingers laced together in front of him. Illya knew that body language telegraphed a defensive posture on the man's part and he was not fully receptive to the story he was being told.

"We were at University of Georgia together in our younger days as well as in training for GRU. He stayed with military intelligence, I moved on to KGB. He was always resentful and jealous of me."

"Really? And he has carried this with him all these years?. Lesnichy called his attention to a small television screen that had been brought into the room on a rolling cart but another Soviet officer. "This is video footage from the security cameras at the United Nations from the night you were there."

Illya watched the recording nervously, though showing no sign of it as the real Kiril approached him from behind while they were at the party and watched as he turned the volume down on his own radio. Then Kiril leaned towards him, whispering in his ear...that fateful news that he was the one responsible for their father's death, Dimitry and the partisans. But the recording couldn't pick up what was said.*

"What did you say to him Komrade?"

"I told him he was a traitor to his people." Illya realized he was lucky that the images were not clear enough for lips to be read, otherwise he would have been in trouble.

"And what did he say to you in response?"

"He told me that he was going to kill me. And that was why I ran. He followed me though the kitchen and outside to the loading dock.

The Colonel's assistant, a Kapitan Popyrin pulled up the security tape from the alley showing Kiril attacking him, then the two of them wrestling out of camera range. Then Kiril ran across the camera view again then disappeared. The Kapitan shut off the video standing to one side watching and listening carefully.

"What happened there in the alley?" Lesnichy asked.

"He tried to kill me but I was able to disarm him and plunged one of my throwing knives into his hand, allowing me to escape."

"Very nicely told," Lesnichy said, " but for him to have pursued you with such fervor... I think there has to be more enh? I think you are not telling me the truth and I do not take kindly to lies." He leered as he leaned closer, to Illya's face, trying to intimidate him. "So must I turn this into an interrogation? Should I suspect you of somehow being duplicitous? You being missing for nearly two months would make a prudent man suspicious would it not?"

"Of course Komrade Colonel, if you were not suspicious of me then it would be I who would be concerned at your competency. " Kiril smiled knowingly.

"Andropov your words are bordering on insubordination and I will not tolerate that." The Colonel spoke calmly, not showing any signs of anger, except in his eyes, they spoke volumes to lllya.

"I would apologize Komrade Colonel, but doing so would be a sign of weakness. I merely meant that it was an indication that you are performing your duty properly and nothing more." Illya lifted his hands from the arm rests, exposing his palms to the Colonel, another body movement that showed openness and honestly. He knew his body language would tell more than his words. His his eyes, his lips, his hands and his whole body was sending imperceptible signals, yet he knew the Colonel did not quite believe him. But even a prevaricator who believes in his lies can make the difference between the truth and a lie, and Illya knew was a very good liar.

"Well then what can you do to convince me that I have nothing to worry about with you. You are lying to me, and I want to know why?" The Lesnichy persisted.

Illya bit his lip, convincing the Colonel that he was making a difficult decision. "Very well, I will tell you a detail that is known to few people, even in the Directorate. It is classified and must not go beyond this room. You will however be able to verify it with Moskva and once that is done then you will understand my reasons for withholding certain information?"

Kiril leaned into toward Lesnichy, as if he were going to reveal the secrets of the universe to the man, looking him directly in the eye. "This is a very personal bit of information."

"Illya Kuryakin and I are brothers, half brothers to be precise. We share a father, I however am the illegitimate son of Nickolaí Alexaevich Kuryakin, and the grandson of Count Alexander Ivanovich Kuryakin, the grandfather who died in the Solovki gulag during the great purge.

Lesnichy was surprise by this, and quickly thumbed through his dossier, trying to find the merest notation of Andropov's natural father being who he said he was.

"So you see Komrade Colonel, Illya Kuryakin hates me. Through no fault of my own, I am the the result of an infidelity on his father's part and I am the physical representation of Nicholaí's...to use the word _sin_ for lack of a better one. Kuryakin worships the memory of his late father, and my existence is a blemish on that memory, and for that he wants me dead. You see he thinks his father was a perfect man and a great hero, and for his hero to have committed such a crime against his beloved mother is unthinkable. And I must tell you, this was not the first time he has tried to kill me," Illya lied convincingly.

"I have outwitted him each time he as made his paltry attempts on my life, trying to make them look like accidents. He tried to drown me in a river as a child when we were in the partisan camp in Bykivnia forest, then when he discovered that I was at the University of Georgia just as he was; he caused a lab accident killing everyone there. But I escaped in time. The investigation stated that it was the fault of the students in the lab, and their incompetency that caused the explosion, but I knew better.

Illya used legitimate examples from his memory so as to not have to worry about recounting these details again if needed and though parts of his explanations were fabricated, it was nothing that he cold lose track of.

"We had not seen each other in many years, and he apparently decided when he saw me at the U.N. that this was yet another opportunity for him to try to end my life."

The Colonel's demeanor changed, as did his body language and this telling Illya that is ruse was beginning to work.

"I have each time tried to make him see the error of his ways and attempted to convince him to consider forgiveness and be brothers to each other, but he would hear nothing of it. I think he actually was quite obsessed as it were, and am surprised that U.N.C.L.E. had not sent him packing back to U.S.S.R... but eventually they would have seen his lunacy and the fact that it would become a danger even to them. I do not think their leader, Waverly is that stupid not to have been aware of it sooner or later? But now of course it is too late."

"What is that supposed to mean Komrade?" The Colonel asked.

"Illya Kuryakin is dead, I killed him." Kiril said it calmly, with an almost blaise attitude.

"Impossible, he was just spotted recently in Venice with his partner." Lesnichy flipped through another dossier, obviously one on Illya Kuryakin. "Yes, he said finding the page." He and his partner had been arrested in Venice."

"Yes he returned from Italy and I caught him off guard. I assure you the traitor is indeed dead," Kiril smiled with satisfaction. It happened not long after he returned to New York. I killed him in Central Park while he was apparently just taking a leisurely walk. I took him by surprise just south of the Belvedere is the Tunnel. After a brief stuggle, I drove my knife up under his chin. He died very quickly."

That finally surprised Lesnichy. "Very well Komrade Andropov, I will as you say verify this information with Moskva. Now if you will wait here, I will do so immediately.

The Colonel left Kiril alone with Kapitan Popyrin. The man had been silent up until now, but then he walked over, sticking his face into Kirils.

"Polkovnikdurak_the Colonel is a fool." he said. "I for one think there is more going on here than meets the eye and I suspect that your disappearance for so long means more."

"It is not for you to say Komrade Kapitan." Kiril sniped at him. " I need to offer no further explanation to an _underling _such as you. So keep your thoughts to yourself, as I am sure the Colonel would not appreciate your questioning of his actions."

"We will see Andropov." Popyrin grimaced.

A half hour later the office door opened with Lesnichy returning.

"I have spoken to Moskva and the Directorate has indeed confirmed your story to me. They commend you on your escape and call you a hero of the Soviet people as they have verified the death of the traitor Kuryakin. They are are anxious for you to return to the Kremlin for further discussion and I suspect there is a medal forthcoming. Well done Komrade."

The Colonel absent-mindedly placed a hand to that special medal pinned to his uniform, subconsciously telegraphing his own pride, and that indeed was one of his weaknesses. Illya knew he needed to display humility to this man, again to re-enforce that he was a genuinely loyal operative.

"May I be the first to officially welcome you back Komrade Andropov." The Colonel saluted Illya, shook his hand followed by a congratulatory slap on the back.

Illya showed no reaction, masking his relief with only one humble word. "Spacibo."

"We will provide you with a car to continue your journey home. The Central Committe has asked the you deliver a package to Kyiv, take a day to visit your home if you wish, then you are to proceed to Moskva for a hero's welcome. I must apologize however that at present we cannot authorize public or air transportation as the unrest with Dubçek could erupt into violence at any moment, and all military transport is grounded on standby. And of course the expense of a public flight...well, you understand these things? Who knows Komrade, we may be all called up for active service if invasion of Czechoslovakia becomes imminent?"

Lesnichy sighed. "This matter in Czechoslovakia is causing much tension in Moskva to say the least Komrade. I had my own security concerns in March as there was a conference in Dresden with representatives of USSR, Poland , Hungary, Bulgaria and East Germany with Dubçeks people. Nothing good came of it. Since his election in January Dubçek has done nothing but put forth liberal reforms that are causing nothing but trouble."

"Yes, "Kiril said," This situation cannot be tolerated, Dubçek and his so-called reforms are a challenge to the Socialist and Soviet way of life."

"Well said Komrade." The Colonel said slapping Kiril again on the shoulder."Kapitan, bring me a bottle of vodka, and not State issue. Bring one from my personal supply. We toast with a hero of the people." he smiled.

Popyrin returned a few moments later with a tray with a bottle of and three _granyonyi staken_, the heavily faceted thick drinking glasses.

The glasses were filled by the Colonel, for he and Kiril, but not for Popyrin.

"Chtobygeroisovet-skogo naroda_to a hero of the Soviet people, " he toasted.

"Nyet Komrade Colonel do not toast to me as such, for I am no hero and only did my duty as I saw fit. Let us toast instead to a _true_ hero, Yuri Gagarin. He is the one worthy of the title Hero of the Soviet Union."

"Da that was a terrible loss for the Soviet people, and to die in a mere training accident in his Mig fighter jet, such a pity that he could not have died a glorious death in combat."

"Dlya Gagarina_to Gagarin" Kiril raised his glass of vodka, truly meaning his toast as the first man in space was a true hero. He remembered watching the news feed at U.N.C.L.E. when the Cosmonaut Gagarin returned to earth in his Vostok spacecraft. He was very proud of being Russian that day but at the same time he had to temper that pride as those around him were aware of the new spying capabilities that the Vostok crafts would now offer. It was a new era with man entering space for the first time, but it also ushered in a new era for the world of espionage, as well as mistrust and competition between the Soviet Union and the United States.

The two men downed their vodka in one gulp then as tradition dictated when making an important toast, smashed the glasses on the polished concrete floor.

Popyrin continued to stare at Kiril, not surrendering his misgivings as quickly as had the Colonel.

"Come Komrade Andropov, we go now to the motor pool and get you a car" Lesnichy said.

"Spacibo, Komrade Colonel. But might I impose upon something to eat before I leave, it had been a long trip and I have not eaten since I left Bern."

"But of course...Kapitan bring our Komrade a hearty meal, no make it two as I am feeling a bit hungry myself. We will eat here Kiril Nickovich then we will go to motor pool Da?"

Kiril nodded in agreement, then watched as the Kapitan glared at him before leaving to do as he had been ordered ordered.

Though Popyrin was a Captain, Lesnichy treated him like a true subordinate and Kiril wondered what misdeed the man had committed to deserve such treatment from his commander.

A short while later Popyrin returned with a sumptuous repast for the two of them. Vareniki and smetana- dumplings and sour cream, shashlyk_beef shiskebob, along with stuffed pirozhki buns made for a very satisfying and filling meal.

It was obvious to Illya, though there were starving people all across the Soviet bloc, that the KGB still saw to it that certain members were well taken care of when it came to food and other amenities, remembering his half-starved days working in Soviet Military Intelligence, but then again he was a true underling in the GRU and not high up on the pecking order as was Lesnichy in the KGB.

The concept of Socialism was not working as there were still the _priviledged few_ among the Soviet people.

.

ref * "The Sins of Our Fathers Affair"


	13. Chapter 13

Mark Slate sat at the conference table with Napoleon, Hervé, along with Dieter and the rest of his relatives as they continued to scour through the personnel files of every person stationed in the West Berlin office.

"Mates, I have to tell you straight up. I think we're bloody wasting our time here. It's quite literally looking for..."

"Yes we know Mark, a needle in a haystack. "April moaned as she walked in the door from having just freshened up.

"Not that she needed it," Napoleon thought as he eyed the red-haired agent. Her skin was flawless and showed not one sign of aging. They'd been at this for nearly fourteen hours and she looked great, in spite of spending all that time with their noses buried in document after document and still finding nothing.

April pushed aside the empty take out containers and plate on the table and picked up another file from the stack that remained in front of her, flipping through a few pages then she suddenly looked surprised.

That file had in her hands was put aside as she quickly thumbed through the others her _done_ pile, then finding a few folders that she was searching for, she exclaimed, "Eureka!"

"What?" Napoleon asked, looking at her with eyes that were narrow slits from lack of sleep. "You found something?"

"Yes," she said proudly. Look through your files for the name Rupert Johannson...he's with medical, the psyche department." She proudly held up a handful of files." Every one of these people have had a psyche evaluation with him in the last three months."

"Really?" Napoleon smiled, looking at Dieter. "And how long has this Johannson been here?"

"Only four months, he transferred here from the Geneva office and the was there only a few months before joining us. Everything seemed very much in order when he was sent to us, but then come to think of it, the head of our Psychology department fell very ill immediately after Johannson's arrival. He is still on extended medical leave as they can't figure out what's wrong with him."

"Interesting, and maybe a coincidence but to me just a little bit suspicious," Napoleon said as he pulled the Johannson file from his pile of folders, looking it over carefully. "Hmmm, very interesting indeed? It seems that one of his specialties is hypnotherapy."

"But that doesn't mean anything, some of U.N.C.L.E.'s medical personnel have that ability and often assist with the debriefs of retiring or compromised agents." Dieter said.

"But not all." Napoleon defended his statement. "Let's pull up a list of all the personnel that've been in to see the good Doctor since he's arrived."

One of the secretaries, Dieter's cousin Helga went to the computer terminal, pulling up the report and handing to Solo.

"Bingo." He smiled. "Everyone of our nine original suspects from communications are on the list, as a matter of fact there seems to be an inordinate number of people seeing him for the short time he's been here?"

"Mandatory psyche evaluations?" April asked.

"Too soon,"Dieter answered. " So you think he is hypnotizing my people into becoming traitors? I thought no one could be hypnotized to do anything against their will...surely these people can't all be willing to turn on us so easily?"

"Perhaps he is using some sort of drug to overcome the conditioning... it could be possible as the support people don't receive the same level of conditioning that field operatives do. That's why we're not seeing any Section II agents on the list, though there are a few members of section III." Napoleon countered."and the records staff and communications personnel receive the least amount of treatment than any one."

"Now the question is, how do we prove what we think the wanker's been up to?" Slate asked." give him a lie detector? I doubt that would work."

"I know, what we can do," Hervé said. "I go in to see him. You can plant monitoring devises on me. And when he tries something, then you come to my rescue and catch him red-handed."

"There is one problem Napoleon, most of these people that he's seen have been at his request, " said Dieter."

"Well I could request a session with him, saying I've been having trouble keeping my mouth shut and have been counselled on it by my section head Bruno Dresner, and now I think I need some help with it, suggesting hypnotherapy? Sort of dangle a carrot in front of his nose, non?"

Napoleon raised his eyebrows, surprised that the young agent had come up with a quick and simple yet viable plan. "Let's do it then."

The arrangements for the audio surveillance were readied with April monitoring that along with Dieter from his office. Once preparations were set, Hervé placed a telephone call to the Johannson.

"Dr. Johannson speaking."

"Yes Docteur, this is Agent Hervé Bouchard. I wonder if I could trouble you for an appointment?"

"At four? I have that time open. Would that be good for you?"

"Yes Docteur, I suppose." The hesitancy and tone of Hervé's voice were the perfect lures.

"Is it something serious my boy?"

"Potentially sir, it could mean the difference between me staying with U.N.C.L.E. or not. I think I have need of some hypnotherapy to solve my little...problem."

"Really? I tell you what, come to my office at noon and we will discuss it, since it seems to be of a great concern to your career."

"Merci Docteur, I will be there." Hervé hung up the receiver with a look of satisfaction..

"Okay son, it's your big chance," Napoleon smiled at him.

"I will make you proud Monsieur Solo and you as well Dieter," the young man said.

Mark Slate and April Dancer watched Johannson's office waiting for him to leave and as soon as the doctor did so, Slate entered to plant the bugging devices that were needed to catch the doctor at his game, while April was left to act as his as lookout.

He set up a remote microphone disc under the leaf of a silk floral arrangement atop a small bookcase, then a miniature camera hidden in among the books as well. This was the one place in headquarters where eavesdropping devices were prohibited due to doctor-patient confidentiality.

"Mark," Aprils' voice hissed into his earpiece." He's coming back, get out now!"

He quickly grabbed an discarded manila folder from a few that were lying in a dust bin, then headed out the door. Keeping his nose buried in the folder as the unsuspecting doctor walked past him down the hallway, then into his office.

Noontime arrived as did Hervé, right on time for his appointment. Dr. Johannson welcomed him, asking him to be seated or if he preferred to lie on the couch. The agent chose to sit, and was acting a little nervous.

"Come come my boy, I'm not going to bite you. I know you agents get uncomfortable when around some one from my medical specialization, but I assure you all things are kept confidential here. The only time I need to report to Mr. Rheinhardt is when an agent is not certifiable to be in the field.

"Certifiable, that's a rather funny choice of words," Hervé chuckled.

Johannson laughed as well. "Very astute of you young man, yes I suppose that did not sound right coming from a psychiatrist. Now what is it you seek help with?"

"I have been told that I have a habit of talking too much, that I tend to share things with others too quickly and that for a spy is a bit of a handicap."

"Handicap indeed. And why is it you suppose you feel the need to be so communicative with others Hervé...may I call you that?"

"Um, why of course Docteur. In answer to your question, I suppose I want to be liked and accepted by my peers."

"You feel you need their approval?"

"I suppose so."

"And why do you suppose that is so?"

"I want to succeed, to be liked. I mean...does not everyone want those things? If I'm well.., " he clicked his tongue." it would be more likely that people would be willing to partner with me on assignments if they like me?"

"Yes that is true, " the Doctor smiled. "but you do realize that you do not need the approval of your fellow workers to be a successful agent with U.N.C.L.E.?"

"Oui, but I think being on good terms with them helps. One never knows when their assistance will be needed. I fear that if I am disliked, then someone might not be so quick to come to my aid."

"Ah but agents have a sworn duty to follow now do they not?" The doctor asked.

"Oui Monsieur, but agents are also human, and can let their feelings affect their work sometimes, non?"

The conversation between doctor and patient went along these lines for quite some time until Johannson asked the magic question of Hervé.

"Young man, have you ever felt any dissatisfaction with your position here at U.N.C.L.E.?"

"Dissatisfaction Docteur? I am unsure as to what you mean."

"Do you feel like you are being given assignments commensurate with your abilities as an agent?"

Hervé hesitated for a moment, trying to make his concern look genuine.

"I do not think that is a good thing to say sir."

"Why not?"

Hervé swept his hand. "The walls Docteur, they have ears do they not? If an agent were to express such feelings, then I think soon he would no longer be an agent and have his memory wiped."

"Young man, this is a psychiatrists office and there are certain boundaries that even U.N.C.L.E. respects. The conversations between a doctor and his patient are privileged and not monitored. They only see what I put in my reports, and an agent expressing a dissatisfaction with his work is nothing I would tell your superiors. I am here to assess an agents psychological preparedness to face the rigors of the field and help with any issues that have cropped up because of incidents when out there on assignment."

Mark shook his head as they listened in on Johannsons lecture to Hervé. "I'm not so sure this is going where we think it is. He's sounding right legitimate so far."

"Mark darling have some patience. Give the man enough rope and I have a feeling he'll hang himself," April chimed in as they continued to watch and listen in.

"Oui I understand Docteur. I have been somewhat unhappy about my assignments lately and am feeling somewhat like a lackey...being sent to pick up visiting agents, ferrying people back and forth to the airport. That is a job for the motor pool or junior operative and not a Section II field agent is it not?"

"Most certainly. We need to explore this further young man, but I'm afraid we must cut this session short as I have another appointment in five minutes. We can schedule another meeting back at four this afternoon, if that is alright with you?" Johannson smiled at him reassuringly as he offered his hand to the young man.

"Very much so Docteur. I would like that, merci, " Hervé said, shaking hands with Johannson, flashing him a genuine look of gratitude.

"Good, I will see you then, good bye." He ushered Bouchard out of the office rather quickly, walked over to his desk, locking it up along with his file cabinet. The left his office, securing the door behind him.

"Appointment my arse," Mark muttered.

"Switch to the corridor security cameras and let's see where he's off to, " Napoleon said.

Mark flicked several switches on the panel, with multiple views popping up on the video screen, allowing them to watch Johannson move from corridor to corridor. He took the elevator down heading down and exiting at the floor where Personnel records were located along with some other departments.

He made a bee-line to records and walked inside, straight to the woman manning the desk.

She smiled at him as he withdrew a pen to sign in, then suddenly a puff of red smoke spewed out of it into her face.

"I was never here. You did not see me. Repeat the instructions.

The woman stood there in a trance-like state, doing exactly as she was told. " You were never here. I did not see you," she droned.

Johannson removed the keys from the drawer in front of the woman, sifting through them until he came to the one he needed, then headed over to a particular file cabinet, unlocked it then thumbed through the files until he came to the one he wanted.

"Zoom in Mark," April asked.

A close up view showed that he had pulled Hervé Bouchard's dossier. The Doctor slipped it inside another folder he was carrying, dropped the keys back in the desk drawer. "You will awaken in one minute, feeling refreshed." Then he snapped his finger, leaving the room. A minute later the girl came out of her trance.

"Oi, doesn't the wanker know we have security cameras down there?"

"Just because he's a mole, doesn't mean he's that smart. Especially if he's of the feathered kind."

"I'll bet lunch that he is, " April said, " If he were Stasi, then he would probably know where every security camera is in the building and would most likely use some sort of jamming device when he needed to go somewhere without being seen."

"Agreed," Napoleon said. "Seems like he's been more than hypnotizing people from other sections as well. This may be even bigger than we thought Dieter. Have the others continue to go through the files for _anyone_ who's been in to see him."

Hervé walked back into the room with a smile on this face. " Mon Dieu, that was not easy. How did I do?"

"You did well, but we've just discovered he's using some sort of aerosol type drug on people that he's obviously has under his control, so we need to figure out how to circumvent that on your next visit at four o'clock. That doesn't give us much time." Napoleon frowned, scratching the back of his head while he thought.

.

The young Section II agent arrived on time for his appointment with the psychiatrist and was ushered in quickly by the doctor.

"Welcome back Hervé, please if you would lie on the couch..."

Hervé complied without question and laid down on the couch as was requested of him. Then Dr. Johannson's office instructed him to start out with deep breathing exercises.

"Close your eyes Hervé, breath in, breath out slowly. In...out, relax. Listen to the sound of my voice. I want you to close your eyes for a few moments, focus on your extremities, start with your toes. Feel them, make them relax. Concentrate on them." Johannson spoke with a low and soothing tone; to Hervé it felt safe and comforting.

"Now feel the muscles of your calves, tighten them then, relax. Continue up your legs and concentrate on each muscle group aaaand breath in, breath out. will hear only my voice.

Johannson continued this technique as he focused on the movement up along Hervé's body, as little by little he removed any resistance, putting him in a completely calm and suggestive state.

Johannson held a black and white spiral pattern in front of the man's eyes, not unlike a pin wheel and the doctor began to spin it with a flick of his finger and continued doing so.

"Focus on the pattern, let yourself be a part of it. You are getting very sleepy, and hear only my voice." He lowered his voice to a near whisper. "You are asleep, and will respond only to my voice."

He kept the pattern spinning for another moment as his patient stared at it with a now blank expression on his face.

"Can you hear me?"

"Oui."

"Who am I Hervé?"

"Dr. Johannson."

"Do you trust me?"

"Oui."

"Now I want you to listen to me carefully Hervé, there is a leak at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters and I need you to get me the new security codes that will be put in place in another day, I need them before the end of the month. It is vital for the safety of everyone in headquarters that you get me these codes...lives depend upon it. Do you understand me Hervé?"

It was a normal course of action for all codes used by communications to be changed to a new ones every few months, as well as for personnel to be rotated. Once the codes were changed Johannson would not be able to have anyone transmit for until he's hypnotized the new batch of communications techs.

He would have to begin that process all over again, but this time he didn't want to wait for the codes...that along with hypnotizing new personnel to get them would just take too long and Johannson needed these codes to continue his little operation.

These communications people were conditioned not to reveal the codes, so when he first arrive at UNCLE Berlin, he had used the Psychology department head to help him get the codes...then did away with the doctor by hypnotizing him to believe he was ill.

Johannson chuckled as the medical department was still tying to figure out the man's mysterious infirmities, which they had no clue were all psychosomatic and hypnotically induced.

So now this naive section II agent Bouchard would be his perfect dupe, as he seemed highly suggestive in spite of his conditioning.

"Listen to me carefully Hervé, " Johannson continued with the session.

"Oui Docteur."

"Repeat back your instructions to me please, and do it in English, not in French."

"Yes Doctor. I am to provide you with the new security codes."

"Very good Hervé. Now I want you to breathe deeply through your nostrils."

Johannson pulled his pen, releasing the small cloud of red gas into Hervés face.

"That will be enough Doctor." Napoleon announced coldly. He had entered the office with Johannson completely unawares as he was concentrating on Hervé. The Doctory looked completely suprised when he turned his head and saw that an U.N.C.L.E. special was aimed directly at him.

"No!" Johannson screamed, then charged at Solo but before the agent could fire a tranquilizer dart at him; the doctor suddenly collapsed in front of him, dropping to the floor with a muffled thug.

Mark Slate rushed into the room behind Solo, going immediately to Johannson, while Napoleon saw to Bouchard.

The British agent knelt over the doctor, taking a whiff of the distinct odor. "Mate' bad news...potassium cyanide," he concluded from the odor of bitter almonds. He felt the man's throat for a pulse. "He's dead as a door nail guv."

"Dammit!" Napoleon cursed aloud.


	14. Chapter 14

Colonel Lesnichy saw Andropov off to the motor pool, handing him a sealed courier pouch, and a piece of paper indicating the time and place to where it was to be delivered. "Moskva will expect you once you have completed the drop. I suggest you do not linger too long in Kyiv." Then the Colonel saluted him before before he left.

Kiril Andropov climbed into another boxy Trabant that the KGB had provided for him, this time a drab blue-grey color instead of a red one. This made him happy for at least the car would surely blend and disappear among other similar vehicles that would be on the motorway as he continued on his journey. Though Illya's bum was not as enthusiastic as these cars just were not made for comfort.

Illya was sure this was no courier mission and had no doubt this assignment was some sort of test. The package had to arrive at it's destination intact and undisturbed, this side trip could potentially throw a monkey wrench into his time table.

He looked at the communications disc that he pulled out of his pocket. Best to keep it just in case, even though things were running smoothly, perhaps too smoothly?

That little annoying creature tried gnawing at him again until he banished it. It was not out of fear that he decided to keep the homing devise, it was a precautionary measure as it might come in handy. One never knew in this sort of game. Not that there was anyone from U.N.C.L.E. around to help him, and he guessed that maybe just having the disc in his possession made him feel a little better.

He tried to separate himself from his fears, allowing his instincts to take precedent. They were usually spot on, and as Napoleon trusted his so-called gut, he needed to trust his own beyond the rumblings of hunger pangs.

Illya pulled the car out into traffic heading west to the Rheinsteinstrasse. It would be a fairly direct trip across the border and to his next destination of Warsaw. That, he estimated would take him between seven to eight hours of straight driving. He was tired, the contacts were burning his eyes terribly but he dare not remove them until he was well away from the city and across the border into Poland.

Once there he would find an out of the way place to eat and sleep for a short while and remove the lenses to give his eyes a break. He couldn't afford an overnight stay anywhere as he had no idea if he would encounter any sort of unrest or dissident behavior in that country.

Since Dubçek's bold political moves, sympathetic upstart groups showing him support had been cropping up all across the Soviet bloc and and were being suppressed, so who knew what sort of travel delays and diversions he could encounter. He had to stay clear of any such complications, even Lesnichy was correct in that in that assumption, but for different reasons.

He needed to get Moscow not only or report to the Kremlin but to meet his next C.I.A. contact. That was the only way they would know that he was still alive and on target and there he was to receive the last of his instructions on where to find Kvantrishvilli in Gorky.

In that he was under a time table and he was very much aware of. If he missed his deadline, he would be caught and executed and no doubt the scientist along with him, and whether it was as Kiril Andropov or Illya Kuryakin, it mattered not. The result would be the same.

He used to have nightmares of being in front of a firing squad, standing to be executed at the hands of Viktor Karkoff.* And now his dreams had the definite chance of coming true if he failed in this mission, the only difference would be that Viktor would not be his executioner as he was dead, He had heard it was in the Solovki gulag and was punishment from the Directorate.

But that was when the balance of power had swung in favor of the GRU, now he was very much aware that the KGB was once again in a position of political favor. That was what it was all about in the Soviet Union in the final analysis, and not about truth, not about following what the party believed in...it was about the bullshit of politics and power and nothing more. The Tsar, the Bourgeoisie were gone and in their place were the corrupt politicians and people jockeying for their piece of the pie, and control over who got what and nothing more.

The Soviet people as always suffered because of it, they were nothing but worker bees in a great hive but the Socialist ideals never seemed to apply to them as they were supposed to, as so many of them labored long hours for so little, living in sub-standard housing and eating poorly. They plodded on with their daily existence with few hopes of a better life for themselves, their children and their children's children.

Illya thought about the United States, it was now his home and he knew there too existed problems, but at least there was hope, at least a person had a chance of making a better life for themselves and their family. America was truly an amazing place and not what he was lead to believe it was when he was first sent there to work for U.N.C.L.E.

He tried not to let is mind drift to Elliott and the children, but seeing Dresner and Beyer made him think of home. Elliott's face kept popping up in his mind's eye, as well as that of his brave Demyachka and his beautiful Lourdes...he could hear her tiny little voice saying his name along with her infectious laughter. He almost lost her in that awful car accident and yet God spared her, now he asked for himself to be spared so that he could return to her, Elliott and Demya.

Illya avoided organized religion, again feeling the restraints and controls that were there were not for him...not after having lived a life of control in the Soviet Union. To him belief in God had returned to him as a personal thing, his thoughts and prayers were between him and God and no one else.

His was a hope that God was listening to his entreaties to let him survive this, but he remembered his prayer when he was looking at his child as she lay in that hospital bed, his plea for God to take him instead of her. Would this be his time to _pay the piper _and give God his due? He prayed again, asking for forgiveness at being greedy...asking God not to take him yet. **

"Pozhaluĭsta, Bog slushaet?_God please be listening? " he whispered as he shifted gears and gave the Trabi a little more gas to accelerate into the faster moving traffic on the Rheingoldstrasse leading away from the bleakness that was East Berlin.

He did not see a black Mercedes as it lay back, having pulled out as well from the motor pool at the Karlshorst, and was following him at a discreet distance out of the city...

.

Breakfast was a normal one at the Kuryakin household. "Miaow!" Boris complained vehemently until she was fed.

Demya had his bacon and eggs in front of him, slipping some pieces of meat to the cat when he thought his mother wasn't looking. Lourdes was happy as usual, as she spooned her _Farina_ into her mouth but conveniently let some of it fall to the floor, taking a hint from her brother, and giggled as Boris lapped it up from the linoleum. Sadly it didn't feel odd to not have Illya there. Demmy seemed to take it in stride that it was just part of life; his father came and went and accepted that he would be gone longer some times more than he liked.

Elliott looked at her son's drawing of Ireland that was displayed on their refrigerator door, making her smile not only at his thoughtfulness, but also his inquisitiveness as to how far Russia was from Ireland. Perhaps when she returned home from work, she would get out the atlas and show him where each country was situated.

Illya was fiercely proud of his Russian heritage, being sure to teach Demmy the language and he was well on the way to teaching Lourdes too, but he would never really talk to them about his home and family, nor the Soviet Union. His life had been too harsh there and she supposed he didn't want his children knowing that, feeling Demma needed to get a better sense of the world as it was. She wondered if her husband would be near anywhere his home in Kyiv.

Her own mother was from Kyiv also of Russian extraction like Illya's family and she remembered being told about beautiful things, the city and the countryside surrounding it. The cold winters when they would glide through the snow in a troika pulled by three horses, and her mother spoke of the beauty of spring and the time rebirth for all things living.

Illya surely had to have some pleasant memories...but somehow they seemed to get lost in all the terror and sadness that overtook his childhood. He was traumatized by the war and losing his entire family, and his stay in that concentration camp colored his memories deeply. He told her about many things from his past, both good and bad, but he would not talk about the death camp, she realized that it was too horrific for him to speak of it. She'dseen books about the camps, and photographs and found it unimaginable what he had lived through.

She supposed that held true for her own mother as well...she too like Illya had been in a concentration camp... Ravensbrück. Shortly before the evacuation of the camp the Germans had handed over several hundred female prisoners, mostly of French nationality, to officials of the Swedish and Danish Red Cross and because her mother spoke French, she was somehow mistakenly put in that group. A British patrol found them and that's how Da' had met her...somehow in the midst of all that suffering her mother and father felt that spark, that connection. Love at first sight.

When Mam talked of things it was always before the war, and after Da' had brought her back to England...never the in between times. It was if Illya himself were caught in that gap, unable to talk about his time in the camp, yet trapped by it as well and unable to remember the good things like her mother did. Though like him there were the things that her mother couldn't bring herself to talk about, even with her dying breath.

She remembered her Mam telling her to be strong that sad last Mother's Day that she lost her, and now those words and her mother's face came to her and she called upon her to help deal with Illya going away on this dangerous mission.

"Mam...help me cope?" she whispered.

"Ma-ma ...Pa-pa?" Lourdes said looking again for her father at the breakfast table, but before Elliott could speak Demmy chimed in to his sister.

"Lala, Papa is away. He went to go see where he used to live when he was a little boy. Russia, can you say Russia?" He said in all seriousness to her.

"Roose...Rusah. Rusah Rusah?"

"That's right Lala, Russia, " he laughed, " Did you hear Mama, she almost said it."

"Yes Demmy that was very good, you keep doing that ...teaching your sister. That's a very good thing ta do." Elliott smiled weakly."

Tonight when I come home Demmy we'll get some books out and ye and I, we'll look at Russia. Pictures and the like and maybe ye can draw a map of the Ukraine, that's where the city where yer Papa was born is."

"Papa told me it's called Kiev."

"That's right Demmy, good job that ye remembered that." She smiled in earnest now, running her fingers through his blond mop of hair.

She turned over the care of the children along with the breakfast mess to Olga, giving them all hugs and kisses before she left for headquarters.

"Don't you worry, " Olga whispered to her, "He will come home, I feel it."

.

Elliott McGowan-Kuryakina walked into to the Del Floria employee entrance at U.N.C.L..E.'s New York headquarters, taking a deep breath as it was going to be a rough day. It was earlier than usual for her to arrive there, but she wanted to avoid seeing too many people just yet.

She had to prepare herself as today was the day that Waverly would let it be known that Illya Kuryakin was purportedly 'dead'. There would be a role for her to play, one full of surprise and shock, then of course she would have to be the grieving widow.

If asked why she was at headquarters, her answer would simply be was that she needed to keep busy. She needed to hold it together for the sake of her children.

Heather Mc Nabb sat at the security desk and as soon as she saw Elliott she burst out into tears. "Oh my God Elliott I am so sorry!" She came out from behind the desk her arms wide open offering a hug, but Elliott took a step back.

She took a tough stance, not shedding any telltale tears just yet.. Then as Heather realized she didn't want the physical contact, and she too retreated back behind her desk.

"Thank you Heather, I appreciate the gesture." Elliott said, keeping a stiff upper lip. She took her badge from the woman, pinning it on and proceeded through the secondary entrance.

"Feck!" Elliott cursed under her breath. Waverly had let the news leak sooner than she anticipated. "Calm down, now ye at least know the cat's out of the bag, so do yer part," she told herself.

She encountered several other people in the corridors and the same overwhelming message of sympathy from them, it was then that Elliott turned on the waterworks as she retreated to the safety of her office, sitting at her desk staring at the family portrait there on her desktop.

It was a photograph of Illya holding Lourdes in one arm with Demya wrapped in his other arm while sitting in his father's lap. She grabbed it, staring at Illya's face and began to cry in earnest out of worry for him. Then her telephone rang.

"Good Morning Miss Mc Gowan," Alexander Waverly spoke to her cheerfully.

"Good morning sir, " she sniffled.

"I heard about your performance this morning and commend you on it, and I am sorry to say that you need to keep up the ruse for a bit longer. I have received word from several of our operatives in East Berlin stating that our target has been contacted and all is proceeding well and as planned...that is to be precise, they spoke to Mr. Kuryakin."

"He's alright then?"

"Yes my dear he is. I have also received intelligence from Bill Klein...on the QT of course, the mission has an anticipated completion date of May 11th and he asked me to relay that information to you in hopes that it would be of some comfort to you."

"Klein said that sir?" Elliott was taken completely off guard with that news..."in hopes that it would comfort me?"

"Yes, it seems that Mr. Klein and your husband had a rather heart to heart talk and Mr. Klein has shall we say, developed a new found respect for Mr. Kuryakin. I also have a package he sent for you in my conference room, which Security of course had to search. It's your husbands belongings...the clothes he was wearing when he left here and several personal articles. Mr. Klein felt that they would be better to have in your hands to return to Mr. Kuryakin once he is back home."

"Really?"

"Yes, apparently Mr. Klein seems quite genuine in this matter. Come up to my office after my noon meeting and I will give the package to you." At that the call from Waverly ended, no pleasantries as usual.

Illya's things? She had a good idea what they were and knew that seeing them would in truth

upset her but at the same time, her heart leaped for joy hearing that he was alright...so far. But that good news would have to be short lived with her. She still had to play the part of the grieving widow. With the exception of Waverly, no one but Napoleon knew that Illya was still alive and on a mission to Russia and it had to stay that way

It would be easy to maintain an upset demeanor, given that she was still worried about him. All she had to do was picture Illya with the children and that would be the trigger she needed to allow her to turn on her tears for show but maybe not quite all show.

Elliott let her mind drift to that wonderful night they spent together, the romantic dinner then the concert at Breezy Point, then home afterward when they were dancing in the dark in the living room...to their song as it play on the radio.

She let the words ring out in her head. "_Oh my love my darling, I hunger for your touch..."_ They made love slowly and tenderly that night, both of them very much aware that it could be the last time but she prayed that it wouldn't be the last time that she'd feel her husbands embrace.

No, her tears would not really be false tears of grief, they would be ones coming from worry that she would never see and feel her Illuysha again.

At noon time she ran the gamut of hugs and sympathy as word spread like wildfire throughout headquarters of the death of Illya Kuryakin. By the time Elliott reached Waverly's conference room, it was all she could do to contain herself, constantly being reminded that your husband was dead, though not true was upsetting enough. But knowing the truth that he was in mortal danger and could actually die compounded matters and helped to keep her emotions to run high, enabling her to put on a good act.

When she arrived to see Alexander Waverly her face was red and her eyes were puffy from the tears that had fallen.

Waverly was not insensitive to her plight. He reached into his private cabinet and withdrew a glass and a bottle of Acquitaine, pouring the libation for her. "Here drink this my dear, it'll help calm your nerves."

"I'm fine sir."

"Please don't humor me with that line Miss Mc Gowan. I know you are not. Now sit down please?" He reached behind his console, pulling out the package for her and sending it around on the rotating conference table.

Elliott opened the flaps to the box, indeed finding the clothes he wore the day he left. His weapons as well as his wallet, St. Andrews medal and his wedding band. The last two items she held tightly in her hand as she flipped open his wallet, seeing the photograph of she and the children that he kept there, and then she quickly downed the Acquitaine. She told herself he was alright and forced herself to swallow her emotions as well, for the moment.

"Two of our agents met with Mr. Kuryakin in East Germany and were taking him to the Karlshorst Rezidentura...the main KGB office there to be debriefed. Apparently his cover has passed muster no less than four times, so this may be his last major hurdle for a bit. The agents in place have reported that he is to head across Poland making a stop in Warsaw, then onto Moscow at that point we hope the C.I.A. will inform us of his progress as they have several contacts for him to meet along the way at checkpoints as it were."

He could see a change in Elliott's expression, as she looked a little relieved at that news. "Now in the meantime you have your continuing role to play as the bereaved widow. We will of course have to have a memorial service."

"A what?"

"Yes, you heard me correctly, a memorial service for a fallen agent. Standard procedure you know that. Of course it would be a closed casket, since we in reality have no body."

"Well, Napoleon isn't here, wouldn't it be appropriate ta wait for him, I mean after all?"

"Yes I suppose you're correct there, but depending upon how long Mr. Solo may be with his current assignment...that might not be possible?"

"I understand sir. I'll prepare myself."

"Good. Now dismissed."

.

Napoleon Solo sat with Dieter in his office, going through a few more files when April Dancer came bursting into the room, quite distraught.

"Oh my God Napoleon!" She pulled a tissue from the cuff of her sleeve, wiping her eyes as she'd obviously been crying.

"What's wrong?"

"It's...it's Illya , he's dead."

Napoleon sat frozen for a moment, trying to act his part in the charade, but deep down inside he hoped the news wasn't really true. " Huh? When where?" He asked, dumb founded.

"Waverly just sent word, it was some KGB agent named Andropov who assassinated him, they said he was caught off guard in Central Park...oh dear God, he was just out for a walk." She wrapped her arms around Solo's neck not fighting the need to cry. "Napoleon I'm so sorry."

He held April for a few minutes, then released her and walked over to the sole window in Rheinhardt's office, and stood there staring out through the window at the grey, rain-soaked day.

"I am so sorry Napoleon," Dieter said to him. Then Mark Slate came in as well, his face flustered from the bad news.

"Jeeze mate, I'm sorry. I can't believe it. I really can't. It was if he were almost indestructible," Mark said running his fingers through his hair in disbelief.

"I know," Napoleon said quietly as he dropped into a chair at the conference table covering his eyes with one of his hands."

April signalled for Mark and Dieter to leave the room with her, giving Napoleon his privacy to grieve. Once he was alone, Napoleon muttered to himself. "Tovarisch, I hope you know what you're doing?" He then let out a long sigh, and he loosened his tie then mussed his always perfectly coiffed hair, making him look a little more distraught.

A half hour later April and the others appeared with a bottle of vodka and shot glasses, filling them to the brim, passing them to each other.

Napoleon raised his glass. "To Illya Kuryakin, the best friend and partner a man could ever hope to have."

"To Illya, " they all chimed in.

"God Bless him, " April added. "Elliott and the children too."

"From your mouth to God's ears, he'll need it." Napoleon mumbled, giving April cause to look at him quizzically.

.

* ref " Such is stuff that Dreams are Made on."

** ref "Bozhe moi, spacibo."


	15. Chapter 15

Illya had driven through the the town of Frankfurt on Oder, the Oder-Niesse line that was the border crossing over the Oder river, dividing Germany and Poland. He was stopped at the guard post as was everyone ahead of him and since all his travel documents were in order he made the crossing to the town of Slubice on the Polish side of the river without difficulty other than the wait in line to cross, which took some time.

He recalled from in the past that the two towns had once been the same municipality called _Dammvorstad_ then in1945 it was divided as part of the delineation of the borders between the two countries, and now they have since been part of separate worlds, though still under the sphere of influence from the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

His eyes cried out for him to remove the contact lenses, but he had to endure the discomfort a little longer. It was too soon for him to stop, instead he planned to take a break midway in his eight hour trip.

He had driven the Trabi nearly five hours now without so much as a stop to relieve himself, but now his bladder felt as if it were ready to burst and his stomach was calling out in protest to be fed again, not to mention his eyes feeling like they were on fire. The lenses had to come out, there was no doubt about that. It was time to take his break so he exited his main route onto Swoboda heading to the town of Glowno. He had only a hundred kilometers to go before he made it to Warsaw, but his body was fighting him on this one.

"Not getting any younger," he mumbled to himself as he drove in via the main road.

The town was small, with the skeletal remnants of factories on it's outskirts as it had once been an industrial area, though now it was just a ghost of it's former self, and only of some small historical significance as it was part of the area that was the scene of the Battle of Bzura at the outbreak of the war.

It had been over run by the Wehrmacht the week after the war began and Nazi rule was quickly established and Glowno became part of the German administration unit known as the _General Government. _

During the occupation there were numerous acts of Polish resistance and the Nazi reprisals against the citizens included mass executions and deportation to an infamous Warsaw prison called Pawiak. Many of Glowno's citizenry were forced into slave labor, being shipped to factories across Germany. A ghetto was established, confining thousands of Jews who were eventually transported by cattle trucks first to Lowicz then to the ghetto in Warsaw.

The town still had not recovered in population growth from the war and it remained as an inactive, quiet place located within the river valleys of Mrogat and Mrozca that formed the natural, ecological contour of the land.

Within the center of the town was a small chain of sand dunes called Marakan, this forming the only variation of an otherwise flat landscape. There was ample tree coverage of pine, oak, birch and fir, and if he could not find a safe place to stay, then he would have to sleep in the car, keeping it hidden in the thickness of the surrounding woods.

It was on one of the side streets of that he parked the Trabi as he spotted a small restaurant. It seemed innocuous enough and the first thing he did before getting out of the car was to remove the contact lenses, pouring saline into his eyes to soothe them, but even that burned uncomfortably. He then slipped on his tinted glasses to cover the color of his eyes, as well as to hide their irritation.

He dreaded the idea of having to put the contacts back in, but there simply was no choice. If he were stopped for some reason, his eye color had to match his ID.

Once inside the eatery, a rosy-cheeked woman wearing a floral dress and apron greeted him, reminding him of someone he once knew back in New York, the proprietress of a Polish restaurant called Mama Szura's.

"Dobra Pani dni. Chciałbym zamówić posiłek, masz menu?" He greeted her in Polish asking her if there was a menu."

She laughed heartily. "You are not from around these parts. A menu? No I do not serve so much that it requires a menu to choose from, as there are few customers and it is only me. I am the cook, the bottle washer and the proprietor." She smiled at him warmly, but he could sense hesitation in her voice since he was after all a stranger.

"Today I made potato soup, potato pancakes, cheese dumplings and stuffed cabbage.

"It sounds wonderful to a hungry man, I would like to sample it all, kartoflanka, plaki kartoflane, pierogi and the Golumpki," he said, laying more than enough Zloty on the table to assure her that he could pay for his meal. He did after all look a little rough disheveled from all the driving, and in his brother's style of dress, the worn leather jacket and he sporting a stainless steel chain around his neck, made him look a bit like a thug and his dark glasses covering his eyes as well. Some people became uncomfortable when not able to see a person's eyes, especially a strangers.

"Quite an appetite for such a skinny man. Why is it you do not take off your dark glasses ?" she asked suspiciously.

"Would that I could. They say that they eyes are the widows to the soul, but my soul I do not think you wish to see, " he cautioned her.

He realized that might have been just a little too threatening after seeing the look on her face once he had said it.

"I apologize Madam, I did not mean to frighten you. I actually have an eye infection and it is quite unpleasant to look at. I am on my way to Warsaw to see a physician about it in. Please, let me introduce myself to you so we are no longer strangers, my name is Karol Kaminski."

"Kaminski, that is a Ziębice name," she smiled. " Oh I am Mrs. Gajda, Czeslawa Gajda."

"I am pleased to meet you and yes I am Ziębicach but live in Slubice now. All my family is gone, killed during the war. I am the last Kaminski of my family, not even a cousin is left." He said to her sadly, trying to gain her trust.

"Oh so true, I too lost family, as did many here in Glowno." She clicked her tongue." It is so sad, the town has still not recovered, I fear it is dying out as what young people that are here have gone off to University and no longer wish to honor the traditions of the country people."

"Yes that is indeed sad."

"You are a handsome young man, you are not married yet? How is it a woman has not gotten a catch like you?"

Illya made himself blush. "Most women I meet are too modern for my taste. Now if I could find a woman such as yourself, I would consider myself a lucky man." He teased her, but at the same time she was flattered and that told him he had won her confidence.

"Here what am I doing? You are a hungry man! I will fix a nice meal for you. And I will bring some spiced apple kompot for you."

She brought his drink, then a few minutes later appeared with serving tray filled with plates containing potato pancakes, peirogi, a bowl of the potato soup. Then finally a plate of the stuffed cabbage arrived in front of him.

She let him be and smiled as she watched him devour his food, offering him a second helping. He took her up on that offer, having a few more peirogi, then thanked her, complimenting her cooking. It actually was quite good.

The dishes were cleared and he finished his meal with a glass of Zubrówka**, **an herb-flavored vodka, sighing his satisfaction to the woman.

"May I ask Czeslawa is there a place here in town where a man might rest for a few hours. My infection pains me and I must close my eyes for a while. I am hesitant to sleep in my car, as I would not want a functionary of the secret police to see me and think I was up to no good." He smiled boyishly at her.

"I am afraid there are no establishments for lodgings here," she hesitated." I have a spare room in the back that you are welcome to use for a small price."

Illya smiled. As much as she seemed to trust him, she was still a business woman and did not hesitate to get herself some extra Zlotys.

They agreed upon the price, which after all was said and done was small, and Illya found himself in the spare room, locking the door behind him. He removed his glasses, looking into a small mirror on the wall. His eyes were terribly inflamed, but all he could do was to continue pouring more of the eye drops into them, hissing as it burned again. There were a few copies of _Trybuna Ludu_ _ _People's Tribune_ laying on the dresser that he picked up, deciding to see what was going on in the area before he let himself sleep.

Illya laid down on the soft bed, covered with a quaint multicolored crocheted quilt, then suddenly remembering the trivial fact that it was made up of something called _granny squares_...it was what Elliott had called such a bed covering. That thought made him have a fleeting wish that she was laying down beside him. Then he stopped himself those before thinking like that took his mind elsewhere as the last thing he needed on his mind was sex.

He opened to the front page of one of the more recent editions, letting that distract his thoughts. He found some of the news surprising, even though he was aware of the growing unrest that was spreading thoughout the Eastern Soviet bloc.

In March there was a Warsaw student lead demonstration to the Dean's office in support of expelled colleagues and for the democratic rights according to the Polish Constitution. Pamphlets of Polish students declared support with the Czechoslovakian students. Violence erupted during the demonstration and the police cleared the campus of Warsaw University. Party agitators shouted: "Trouble makers out of the university!" Demonstrators were arrested by the police, who were labeled as "Gestapo" by bystanders.

Clashes between the students and police spread to the Polytechnical University in Warsaw. The police used tear gas to disperse the demonstrators. Student meetings at the university and Polytechnical University in Warsaw caused clashes between students and police in the streets outside the building of the Central Committee of the Communist Party in Warsaw.

Students at the University of Krakow ratified declarations of support and demand the respects of Polish civil rights.10,000 demonstrators clashed with the workers' militia in the streets of Warsaw. Polish authorities pointed out Jews as responsible for the riots.

He shook his head, thinking back to the same rhetoric that the Nazis used to rationalize their attempted extermination of the Jews, and hoped that history would not repeat itself. The Communists were stirring up a new and terrible anti-Semitic campaign, conveniently blaming all things that were going wrong on the Jews...just as Hitler had. They were worried about a new assertion of Polish nationalists, and this was their answer to it.

He read on, devouring the news; on March 12th, protest meetings at factories were held against the student demonstrations. Demonstrators were accused of collaboration with external forces. There were emands for purges of "Zionists" from the Communist Party. Polish officials with children participating in the demonstrations were removed from their jobs.

On March 13th, students at the Polytechnic University in Warsaw ratified a petition with eight demands to the authorities. There were more demonstrations outside the Dean's office at Poznan University. Police arrested 84 people, most of whom are later released.

On the 16th, all Polish Universities went on strike for 3 days. Again there were clashes between students and police on campus of Warsaw University which spread to the rest of the city. The police make an unsuccessful attempt to break up a meeting at the Polytechnic University in Warsaw. The protesters shouted "Long live Czechoslovakia!" The police then attacked students while they tried to seek refuge in a church .

Polish workers were used against the students during street fights in Warsaw and other Polish cities. Films and notes from Czechoslovakian journalists confiscated, one Czechoslovakian journalist was expelled from Poland. Other foreign correspondents encountered difficulties entering the country. The fights between students and police spreads to Jagiellonian University in Krakow. Student posters displayed slogans like: "Warsaw is not alone."

It was obvious that the actions of Dubçek and his reforms were creating major unrest among the new intelligencia in the Universities, and inspired them to protest against the Polish government and Communism. He wondered if this might be signalling the beginning of the end for the power of the Soviet government.

Though this news was over a month old, it was troubling none the less, not only for the people of Poland but for him as well and it might make travel into Warsaw problematic as Klein had warned him. He had no choice, he needed to meet his contact to confirm his time schedule...more importantly that he was still alive.

The news papers reminded him that this was a society with pervasive censorship, as were all the countries of the Soviet bloc. Propaganda was ever present, very efficient and penetrated every facet of life. With" truths repressed, falsehoods in every field were incessantly in print, at endless meetings, in schools, in mass demonstrations, on the radio" But with such details of the unrest in Warsaw being boldly reported, though in some instances condemning the demonstrations, the fact that it was still being made public was going against the grain of censorship.

To speak of anything that was against the _party line _ was a thing that was punishable by imprisonment or _reeducation, or worse. _He shook his head, a bit in awe of all this. Things were trying to change, and he hoped he would live to see the day when he could return to his home freely with out fear. He was once a Communist, but now whole-heartedly saw it as nothing but lies and corruption. The world would be better off without it.

He doubted that he would ever be able to bring his children here, maybe hid grandchildren might see the end of Soviet rule...grand children, he smiled at that thought. His own children were still babies, and he let his thought drift again, wondering what new words his Lala was saying and smiled thinking of her and with that pleasant thought

He put aside the papers and finally relaxed, drawing his Tokarov and resting it in his hand on his chest as he fell asleep instantly. He had developed a knack of being able to wake up when he needed and as tired as he was, he planned to nap for only a few was all the time he could afford.

Outside on the street the black Mercedes drove slowly past the Trabant parked near a restaurant. The driver pulled his vehicle around the corner, exiting it and headed back along the narrow sidewalk towards the business establishment.

He wore a trench coat and fedora, looking like exactly what he was...a member of the secret police. His presence was ominous as he walked inside surveying the room, seeing no one but a woman who was washing down a table with a towel.

"Witam poszukuje posiłek dzisiaj_ are you looking for a meal?" She asked him, though by his looks, she knew what he was and no doubt wanted information.

"Nie_no, I am looking for someone." He drew a photograph of Kiril Andropov from his breast pocket, showing it to her.

He could see it in her eyes, the moment that she looked at the picture he knew she recognized him.

And Czeslawa Gajda suspicions were now confirmed that this man was secret police and she could not risk lying to him to protect the handsome Karol Kaminski. "Tak jadł bardzo obfity posiłek tutaj_yes he ate a very hearty meal here."

"And..."

"Dziękujemy za współpracę_thank you for your cooperation." He said to her in Polish.

"And what am I to do?" she asked, thinking more would be required of her."Has he committed some sort of crime?"

"Nie, on nie ma. Będziesz robić nic. Niech mu spać_ no he has not. You will do nothing, let him sleep."

Then he left her not saying another word. Czeslawa Gajda went immediately to her back room and began pounding on the door with her fist.

"Obudź się Kamiński! Musisz zostawić tutaj_wake up Kaminski! You must leave here now!"

Illya awoke with a start, jumping to his feet with his gun still in his hand and stepped immediately to the side of the door.

"What is the problem? I paid for the use of this room?" He called to her.

"You must leave, there was a man here looking for you. He had your picture...I know he was secret police. You must leave, I cannot afford trouble here."

He withdrew his dark glasses from his jacket pocket, putting them on before he slowly opened the door, then seeing no one but the woman, he hid his weapon in his belt beneath his shirt before he stepped out.

"What did he say?"

"He asked if I had seen you and wanted to know where you had gone. I am sorry, I could not risk lying."

"What else did he say?" He asked looking down the hallway cautiously.

"I asked him if you had committed a crime and he told me no."

Illya's head tilted as his mind raced. Could it have been a contact or was the secret police? With all the unrest in Warsaw could the C.I.A. be changing their meeting place...or could they be turning on him again?

"What did he look like?" he asked her.

She described the man to him in great detail and realized it could be none other than Kapitan Popyrin.

"Skurwysyn_son of a bitch," he mumbled in Polish.

"Do not use foul language in front of me Karol Kaminski, criminal or not!" She said pointing her finger in his face. "Now you get out of here! And here is your money back for the room."

"Moja Pani przeprosin, nie zamierzająpowodować kłopoty i natychmiast opuścić_my apologies Madam, I did not intend to cause you trouble and will leave immediately. And you can keep the money."

He stepped back into the room, quickly retrieving his jacket and the contact lenses that were in a vial of cleansing solution on the dresser.

"One favor, may I at least use the lavatory before I leave?"

"That way down the hall. Piss fast and then get out."

The friendly demeanor that he had cultivated with her was completely gone, as he could hear her standing outside the bathroom door tapping her foot while he used the toilet, washed his hands and after that reinserted the brown contacts on his sore blue eyes.

He exited, saying nothing to her as he walked down the hall into the front room. Illya hesitated before stepping out onto the street, looking first for any sign of Popyrin. Once the coast seemed clear, he got into the Trabi, starting it quickly and putting it into gear as he pulled out, glancing in the rear view mirror to see if there was a sign of the KGB agent following him.

As he passed a side street, he spotted a black Mercedes parked there and as soon as he drove past, it pulled out after him.

"Chyort." He cursed through his gritted teeth.


	16. Chapter 16

"Napoleon wasn't happy, as Johannson committing suicide was something he hadn't anticipated, and getting caught off guard was not a good thing in this business, no matter what the situation was.

Until they verified Johannson's identity, they'd never really find out who was really behind the security breach. Though Napoleon's instincts told him it was the Stasi, there was simply not enough proof. Thrush agents were rarely so dedicated as to take their own lives, as this man had, but that was just a perception on his part and not hard evidence.

He helped Hervé to sit up."You okay there?"

"Je suis bien_ I am fine," he smiled as he popped a pair of protective contact lenses from his eyes. "Incroyable, Monsieur Solo these things really worked. He was not able to hypnotize me."

"Yes they do work well, George Dennell in New York can attest to that." he grinned.*

Then the young agent discreetly removed small wads of cotton that had been shoved up his nostrils, disposing of them into his handkerchief.

"Good things these worked as well, non?" he smiled.

"Using nose plugs was another good idea Hervé. "Solo gave him a congratulatory slap on the back thinking this young man was going to do well as a Section II agent after all.

The personnel affected by Dr. Johannson's hypnotherapy were sequestered and told much to their disbelief that they had been compromised. It wasn't their fault, but it was decided that they would have to be deprogrammed, and would have no memory of U.N.C.L.E. what so ever. Replacements were on their way from the Geneva office to cover the shortage until new staff could be recruited and trained or permanently transferrred from other offices.

After everything had quieted down a bit, Napoleon joined Rheinhardt in his office seated along with Mark and April at the conference table watching the screen that had descended from the ceiling for them to attend a video conference with New York.

Congratulations were given on a swift resolution to the problem of sealing the security leak though Alexander Waverly expressed his disappointment at the doctors demise.

"In the mean time while Dr. Rupert Johannson is in the hands of our medical examiner, I want records to pour through every file to see if they can get a visual ID if in the event the Doctor is not who he said he was. Concentrate on our Thrush data base; our Stasi files are a different matter as they are quite limited. I will contact the C.I.A. to see if they can help us solve this." Waverly took a long drag on his pipe before he continued.

"You two, Miss Dancer and Mr. Slate will stay there and help supervise the house cleaning with Mr. Rheinhardt," he continued. " I want the building gone over with a fine tooth comb. Full security sweeps and all codes need to be changed, but until further notice they will be changed weekly. I also want all personnel to undergo complete re-vetting by security, have the Geneva office handle this. If someone isn't squeaky clean, Dieter then they're out of here. Verstanden?"

"Yes I understand sir. And I want you to know that I will be tendering my resignation as soon as everything is cleaned up here, this was my..."

"Nonsense Dieter, this wasn't your fault. Someone dirty got in, and it could have happened to the best of us. The fact that you became aware of it quickly enough to allow us to make an end of it before too much damage had been done helped tremendously as far as I am concerned."

Dieter bowed his head. "Dankshöen sir. I appreciate your confidence in me."

"Pity we have no proof positive as to who was behind this intrusion, but I do agree with you, it was most likely the Stasi." Waverly suddenly changed he subject. "Mr. Solo I will expect you back in New York immediately as we've delayed Mr. Kuryakin's memorial for your return at Miss Mc Gow...Mrs. Kuryakin's insistence. You have my condolences on the loss of your partner, but these things happen." He was seemingly cold about the whole thing. "Waverly out." Then screen went dark.

"Bollocks that mate', he's being a right wanker about this and it's not right," Mark said in disgust.

"Napoleon, I can't believe Mr. Waverly is acting like that. I mean Illya, he was one of the best agents we've ever had and that's it..._these things happen_?" April said, the disappointment evident in her voice.

"He's right, they do and we all know it." Napoleon said, maintaining the appearing of a stiff upper lip.

April rose from her chair, giving him a hug and a kiss. "Give my love to Elliott, tell her if there's anything I can do for her, please let me know. You know I'd be there if I could."

Mark held out his hand to Napoleon. "That goes for me too." he said quietly."Hang in there mate...he'll be missed."

"Thanks, and yes he will." Napoleon responded, trying to add a little stress to his voice.

.

Napoleon prepared to board his flight from Frankfurt airport to New York, seven hours later after Hervé Bouchard volunteered to drive him there.

"I thought you said that was beneath a Section II agent," Napoleon teased him as he finished checking in.

"Non Monsieur Solo...

"That's Napoleon," he corrected the young agent.

Hervé smiled impishly."Non, Napoléon, it is all part of the job. We go where we are told and do what we are told."

"Hmmm?" Napoleon wondered if Hervé had ever met Illya. He said his au revoirs to the young man, then boarded the plane and settled into his seat, all the while wondering where Illya was and praying he was still alright. This memorial thing wasn't sitting right with him, though it was a necessary evil to maintain the ruse, but that didn't mean he had to like it one bit.

This time he groaned when he saw the in-flight movie was _Dr. Zhivago._ That put him in a bad mood, and he rang his call button, asking for a double scotch and some magazines. Like his partner would do when he wanted to avoid watching a movie, he put on the headphones and listened to music. After getting his drink he took a hearty gulp, then he opened the first magazine and actually ignored the stewardesses for probably the first time in his life.

His flight arrived at Kennedy at eight o'clock in the morning and as he passed thorough international arrivals carrying only his valise and briefcase, he knew that he had absolutely no desire to report to headquarters. There really wasn't any need at the moment as Waverly already had his debrief via video conference, and the written report would be submitted within a few days. He no doubt would see the Old Man at the memorial.

Napoleon just wanted to go home. He was more worried about Illya than he wanted to admit as the trials the Kuryakins were being put through were very much on his mind and that made him want to see his own wife and babies.

Bella knew nothing of the goings on about his partner and now that Illya had been declared dead, he needed to tell her a few details She deserved the truth as there was no need to upset her needlessly by letting her think that Illya was really dead.

His taxi pulled up in front of his apartment building and he greeted the doorman with a simple salute as he walked inside. The elevator ride up to his penthouse apartment seemed to take longer than usual, and he breathed a long sigh when the doors finally opened to his floor. Home.

He hadn't let Bella know he was coming home and figured that he'd surprise her. It was her day off so she was either still asleep...that was if the girls let her sleep in or she was up and running with them. Chances were it was the latter.

The security code was punched into the keypad and reset as he walked inside, slipping his shoes off immediately. It was surprisingly quiet, and that was a good sign. He undid his tie, pulled off his jacket, followed his shirt and by the time he made it into the bedroom where he found Bella asleep in bed, he had stripped off all of his clothing.

He carefully slipped under the covers, snuggling up beside his wife, kissing her gently on the shoulder."

"Mmm? Napoleon?"

"I hope so? If you were expecting someone else, then we need to have a serious talk," he whispered to her.

"Silly."

"Mmm." He pulled her into his arms, kissing her very slowly. "I missed you."

"Missed you too. How'd it go?"

'Mission accomplished. Look I have to let you in on something that's happening. Illya's gone undercover to Russia, and he's masquerading as his dead brother."

That woke Bella up instantly."What? Does Elliott...?'

"She knows, he actually asked her permission to take the assignment."

"Wow...he's in Russia? Isn't that sort of dangerous for him to be there?"

"That's a bit of an understatement. There's more to this and it has to do with part of his cover...Illya Kuryakin had to be declared dead."

"Really, and Elliott knows this too, I would hope?"

"Yes, it's part of the ruse to help maintain his cover as Kiril. It was leaked that his brother killed...assassinated him, catching him off guard when we returned from Venice."He hesitated before telling there the next step. "The thing is, we have to have a memorial service for him to make it all look legitimate. It's scheduled for tonight."

"Oh lovely! Well I guess I better go get a black dress out of the closet."

"Not just yet Mrs. Solo, he said as he fondled her breasts.

"Napoleon, I'm not sure if this is right? I mean we're supposed to be in morning for Illya?" She razzed him for some fun."

"Honey, it's called acting. Now are you going to let me make love to you or not?"

Bella giggled at that. "What do you think," she said, wrapping her leg around him, feeling his arousal against her skin.

She pulled her nightgown over her head, then rolled to her side, letting him slip inside her and together they moved in unison, sighing with satisfaction. Napoleon ran his hands slowly up and down along her body, kissing and nibbling her throat as he made love to her. Bella moaned, letting herself become lost in the feelings of pleasure her husband was giving her, and this excited him further, as he let out his own moans.

"Mmm yeah," she whispered to him.

And then there was a cry, followed by another plaintive wail. The _girls_ were awake."

"Ah the best _laid_...plans," he sighed as he withdrew from her." The cry of their daughters instantly putting a damper to their frolics.

"Nice pun. I'll go," she said, "you're jet-lagged."

"No we'll both go," he smiled, as he stepped from the bed, retrieving a terry cloth robe from the closet and handing one to his wife as well. No silk robes here, he had learned that lesson when first changing and feeding his infant daughters.

He and Bella walked into the nursery together.

"Da-da!" Poly squealed upon seeing her father.

Luci was quieter, and simply held up her arms while opening and closing her little hands in anticipation of her father picking her up.

He leaned over the crib railing, kissing then both on their heads. "Hmmm, not yet." He crinkled his nose. "You _are_ stinky little munchkins. Daddy'll hug you when you're nice and clean...yes he will."

"Daddadadadada!" The two of them now called in unison, looking up at him with their big brown eyes. Sadly that tint of violet that was in their mother's eyes was disappearing from theirs, becoming a deep warm brown like their father's. But sometimes when the light was just right, he thought he could still see that hint of color there.

"I'll get Poly," he said, picking her up and taking her to one of the two changing tables in the nursery.

"Ma-ma?" Luci called out.

"Hey, she called you Mama?" he laughed, happy that their vocabulary was increasing." What else have I missed?"

"Oh let's see... ba-ba, and ee-kaw."

"I get what ba-ba is, but ee-kaw? What the hell is that?"

"I haven't quite figured it out yet, but it usually ends up in a game of twenty questions until I guess what ever it is that one of them wants."

"Okay?" he laughed.

The girls were cleaned and changed, and given warm bottles...sending them back to sleep. And then with a twinkle in their parent's eyes; Napoleon and Bella hurried back to their bed to pick up where they'd left off.

Napolen wrapped himself around his wife, making love to her slowly, passionately as he caressed her lips and her body with kisses. He slipped into her in such a way that she orgasmed instantly, then after a long session of lovemaking, they climaxed together in a groan of satisfaction.

After they snuggled for a while in bed together, enjoying in the afterglow, Napoleon began to feel frisky again and whispered into Bella's ear. "ee-kaw."

"Mmm, no twenty questions needed here I think," she whispered back to him as she pulled the sheets up over their heads with a laugh.

It was around noon when they finally got out of bed, Bella made brunch while Napoleon played with Poly and Luci, taking turns bouncing them on his knees and reciting nursery rhymes to them.

"All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel. The monkey thought it all was in fun. _POP_ goes the weasel." Every time he said _pop, _he'd jump them up in his knees and that would sent them into a fit of laughter.

"pop...mor?" Da-da gan!" Poly said.

"Hey Bella, Appollonia just said pop and hey, she said a sentence!"

Bella stuck her head out of the kitchen listening as Napoleon got Poly to repeat it.

"What do you want roly-Poly?"

"Mor...po popopop da-da!"

"See I told you," he smiled.

Luci said nothing, letting her sister do all the talking. "She's the thinker," Napoleon mused to himself. And a smart one, letting her sister do all the work for her.

They were amazing to him, learning and growing so fast. And they both seemed to be willing to share; one not demanding their Daddy's attention when he was playing with the other. There were times though that he wished he had more than two arms.

The girls were eating baby cereal now on their own and that made for a rather noisy and messy breakfast of words, babbling and banging of spoons on their high chair trays. Once they were finished eating, the mess was cleaned up and Appollonia and Lucine were bathed and dressed.

After more play time with their Daddy, they were put down for a nap and a baby sitter was called for the evening. Luckily, U.N.C.L.E., thanks to Olga Orloff, had a new division that saw to the child care needs of field agents.

Bella set about her task of selecting a dress for the memorial, while Napoleon crashed for a nap on the sofa, with his jet-lag finally catching up with him.

She looked at him snoozing, and smiled. "Not getting any younger Solo," she whispered.

"I heard that," he mumbled back at her.

"Damn," she snapped her fingers as she chuckled, then headed to the bedroom closet to choose her ensemble.

At first she went for basic black but then she thought that would be too much, and opted for a dark grey skirt and jacket with silver silk blouse. Napoleon had already laid out his clothes, deciding to go for a charcoal grey suit as he never really looked good in black or navy and besides, black was Illya's favorite look.

Bella let Napoleon sleep though dinner, but then had a hot open face pastrami sandwich ready for him when he woke. Then they spent the rest of the late afternoon amusing the girls, and letting their children amuse them. Then they took turns showering and dressing while the other watched Appollonia and Lucine.

Napoleon put the finishing touches to his dressing routine, straightening his tie as he looked in the mirror at himself, then wrapped a black armband around his sleeve, reminding himself that this wasn't for real...at least he hoped it wouldn't be prophetic of what might happen to Illya. But seeing the armband still gave him chills.

The sitter arrived and he and Bella left for the Kyteler Funeral Home on the upper east side. It had been vetted to handle all the needs of U.N.C.L.E. and had done so with great discretion. Lately the organization had been forced to use their services one too many times as it had not been a good year so far, with a half dozen agents being lost and it was barely the beginning of May.

The day was becoming dark and dreary as they stepped from the building, with Jimmy the doorman whistling for a taxi to take them to take the short ride to the funeral home.

It of course had to begin to rain as soon as they arrived, stepping from their cab to beneath the awning that extended from the entrance across the width of the sidewalk to the curb.

There were a few people lingering outside smoking cigarettes and the security detail to whom Napoleon nodded in acknowledgement as he hurried Bella inside. He hated the smell of these places, with their antisceptic and floral scents that permeated the air and that awful mournful organ music that was always playing in the background.

Napoleon left his wife in the company of Lisa Rogers for a moment, telling her he'd be right back as he headed for the funeral director's office.

He knocked and was bid to enter and there he found waiting for him Charles Kyteler the owner, Alexander Waverly and Elliott.

"Ah Mr. Solo so good of you to have arrived early." Kyteler said.

"Sirs, Ellie." She was dressed in a simple black, short-sleeved dress with a black wrap draped over her shoulders. Her hair was down though, hanging straight to her waist. She never wore makeup and her pale skin was accented by her freckles.

Elliott smiled weakly at him but said nothing.

"This is the little show that we'd like to put on. Mr. Waverly you'll go in first after I've gathered the mourners in the viewing room, then Mr. Solo, I'd like you and your wife on either side of Mrs. Kuryakin here, supporting her in her _grief _as you escort her inside.

"Mr. Waverly sir would you like to say a few words about ?"

"No, I believe that will be 's bit in the charade."

"Gee thanks." Napoleon mumbled. It suddenly bothered him that he had to eulogize Illya.

"If it's alright with you Mrs. Kuryakin, the U.N.C.L.E. Chaplain will say a few words to conclude the memorial?"

"Fine." Was the only response she could muster. In spite of this being all for show, the idea of it terrified her.

"Alright, let's get on with this then," Waverly said, then turning to Elliott, he reached out clasping his hand tenderly to her shoulder. "I know my dear this is still not easy for you, given your husband's precarious circumstances. If you feel the need to talk, you know my door is open to you."

That was possibly the kindest thing Napoleon had ever heard the Old Man offer to one of his agents. He was usually all about business and rarely showed a personal or emotional side to anyone.

Kyteler disappeared out from his office, then once he had the guests moved into the viewing room, he returned to get the others from his office.

The room went completely silent as Alexander Waverly entered, heading to a chair reserved for him, near to the simple light oak casket that was the focus of attention. It was closed and flanked on either side by two pole lamps with red globes, lending an eerie glow to the coffin. Several large flower arrangements stood on either side of it as well.

The Napoleon and Bella made their entrance, their arms holding Elliott in support as she walked between them.

Bella's eye were filled with tears, Napoleon's face was taught as he seemed to be keeping his emotions in check. Elliott's face was red, and her eyes swollen from crying, those tears came with the help of a nasty piece of onion she had sniffed just prior to coming in. It helped to get her _crocodile tears_ rolling at first, but then she let her pent up worries about Illya take over and the tears became genuine.

They escorted Elliott up to a chair beside Mr. Waverly, and Napoleon took the seat next to her holding Elliott's hand as she sniffed and wiped her tears away.

The ceremony would be brief, with Solo to deliver the eulogy. Following a few words by the Chaplain and Illya's friend Father Stashinski. Then a so-called private cremation was to follow, attended only by the immediate family, which included the Solos.

Napoleon walked to the coffin, standing in front of it for a moment, then cleared his throat as he turned to face everyone. The faces of many of U.N.C.L.E.'s best were there, Lisa Rogers, Heather Mc Nabb, Wanda Oritz. George Dennell, Sammy Konukula, Max Schneider, Roberts Mansur as well as countless others who wished to honor their Russian friend.

"I remember the first time I officially met Illya Kuryakin, it was many years ago in Mr. Waverly's office. It was before we were partners, though I'd worked with him briefly on one assignment. There was an initial bristling that day in the conference room, but also an instant spark between the two of us, I think the moment we shook hands" Napoleon cleared his throat again, appearing to be choked up." We not only became partners but fast friends...no best friends. Illya and I became as one, two halves of a whole...and he completed me. I couldn't have survived all these years if it hadn't been for him. It wasn't because of that _Solo luck_ luck you all talk about, it was because of Illya Kuryakin."

Napoleon paused as he said that name, making what he had to say even more dramatic. "He never ceased to amaze me with his knowledge, his love of learning and that eidetic memory of his that got us out of a jam more times than I'd like to admit."

"Many of you knew him as the _Ice Prince,_ a nickname that was really undeserved. Illya Kuryakin was a passionate man, possessing deep emotions, but emotions that he simply chose not to show to you. He did with me, and he shared part of his life... a part that was secret and sacred to him, baring his Russian soul to me. And I will be forever grateful for that trust, the friendship and love that he's given me, in spite of my failing him..." Napoleon surprised himself that he had let that slip out, though it was the truth.

"U.N.C.L.E. and our lives will be all the poorer without this man. He was the best, and gave his all to us. I will never forget him for what he as done for me as both a partner but most importantly as a friend. He will be missed, moĭ tovarisch i...moĭ zadushevnyĭ , a soul-mate is the translation I can offer. Do svidaniya moĭ brat_ good bye my brother."

Napoleon touched his hand to the simple wooden casket, then bowing his head, he pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers as he moved next to Elliott, sitting beside her and putting his arm around her as she buried her face in his shoulder.

Father Stashinski stepped forward. "I too remember the first time I met Illya Kuryakin, it was the Christmas Eve not long after his son Demya had been born. That night Illya wandered into my church and found God again. It was that night that he began his personal dialogue again with his Savior."

"Many of you were under the belief that he was an atheist and for a good part of his life he did deny the existence of God, not rationalizing Him away because of scientific logic or Soviet dogma, but because he was angry at God. That night he surrendered himself to our Creator's love and because of meeting Illya Kuryakin that night, I am now your Chaplain."**

"So in honor of our friend Illya Nickovich, I would like to recite prayers for him from the Russian Orthodox rite...I will however say them for your benefit in English. First an entreaty to Saint Andrew, the patron Saint of the Ukraine and Illya's home. Illya wore a medal given to him by Elliott in honor of that Saint. It will be followed by the Eastern Orthodox prayer for the dead. If you do pray, then please bow your heads with me."

"_In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost...O Saint of God, Saint Andrew pray to God for Illya Nichovich, for his home and family. Pray to God for him O Saint Andrew, well-pleasing to God, for he readily commended himself to you, who are the speedy helper and intercessor for his soul. Amen._

_Oh Master, Lord our God, Who in Thy wisdom hast created man, and didst honor him with Thy Divine image, and place in him the spirit of life, and lead him into this world, bestowing on him the hope of resurrection and life everlasting; and after he had violated Thy commandments, Thou O Gracious lover of mankind, didst descend to the earth that Thou mightiest renew again the creation of Thy hands. Therefore we pray Thee, O All-Holy Master give rest to the soul of Thy servant, Illya Nickovich, in a place of brightness, a place of green pasture, a place of repose, and, in that they have sinned in word, or deed or thought forgive them: For Thou art a good God and lovest mankind and unto Thee do we ascribe Glory, together with Thy Father, Who is from everlasting and Thine All-Holy and good, and ever giving Spirit, now, and ever, and unto ages of ages. Amen. _

"Amen." The mourners repeated, then the only audible sound were sniffles and muffled sobs.

Father Stash made the sigh of the cross, and sprinkled holy water on the casket, then he walked over to Elliott, whispering words of encouragement to her.

The funeral director stepped forward. "This concludes our memorial service. Mrs. Kuryakin has requested no cards, calls or flowers and to please respect her privacy as her children do not know of their father's passing yet. This memorial is being followed by a private service for family only. Thank you."

One by one, each of the mourners filed passed Elliott and Napoleon offering their heartfelt words, hugs and handshakes. Finally only Elliott, the Solos and Charles Kyteler remained behind.

"Ye are not really cremating that casket?" Elliott whispered. "I mean it's empty, isn't it?"

"Actually it's not," Charles smiled. "Mrs. Grabowski is in there and her funeral is going to start in about forty-five minutes...so if you'll excuse me I have other flower arrangements to set out."

For a moment they cringed at that thought. "Ladies, that was quite a performance you put on. I was impressed," Solo broke the silence.

"And that was a beautiful eulogy ye gave, thank you Napoleon." She was appreciative not only of the candor of his words, but the love they were filled with and the fact that he revealed that love publicly. It was very heartfelt, considering the fact that Illya was alive.

"Yeah shame he wasn't here to listen to it. I trust you'll let him know what I said?" Napoleon snickered.

"Oh ye can count on it." Elliott answered finally breaking into a smile.

.

* ref "The Waverly Ring Affair"

*ref "The East Berlin Affair"


	17. Chapter 17

Illya glanced continually at the rear-view mirror of his little Tranbant as he headed northeast on Zgierska toward Złota, from there he continued onto Łowicka, taking a number of other side roads as he quickly plotted out his route on the fly to see if could lose the black Mercedes, but had no success as it stayed with him and he finally gave up, driving back onto the motorway.

The road was one of the longest European routes with a total length of about 5,800 km, actually running from from Cork Ireland after crossing the North Sea, passing through the Netherlands, Germany, Austria, Slovakia, Poland,Ukraine to Moscow then onwards to the Russian city of Omsk in the east. For much of its Russian stretch, it coincided with the Trans-Siberian Highway and ran east of the Ural Mountains with part of the Asian Highway Network.

It was a route that he had to take and could ill-afford any further detours from it to try and lose Popyrin, yet somehow he had to divest himself of the KBG agent before he met with his next C.I.A. contact in Warsaw, otherwise his cover could be blown. And he wasn't about to have that happen when he'd come this far.

It would take him roughly two hours to reach the city and somewhere within that window he had to lose Popyrin. But even after speeding up in the pitiful Trabi on E8, he could not shake the more powerful Mercedes.

He wondered if Lesnichy's change in demeanor had been nothing but a ruse and had sent Popyrin after him to observe his activities?

"Tvoyu mat'_fuck!" He cursed, slamming his fist on the dashboard. This was exactly the complication he had feared. No, he had not misread Lesnishy, he was sure that Popyrin was going against his commander's wishes, and doubted the Colonel even knew what his assistant was up to at all. Popyrin was out of favor for some reason, so catching a spy...a double agent would be the feather in his cap to raise himself up the political ladder with his superiors at the Kremlin.

"God save us from ambitious men," Illya then mumbled. He knew now that he would have only one option to rid himself of his tail and better he should wait until he reached Warsaw to do it.

The map that Lesnichy had given him, just in case he ran into trouble with any of the demonstrations, was now was coming in handy for another reason, as he glanced at it for some secluded areas outside of Warsaw, while his eyes kept flashing up at the road as he continued to drive...then his eyes caught the name of the city of Łódź, it was southwest of his route, just a half hour away.

That name distracted him from his current problem, reminding him of the past as it had been the site of the Łódź Ghetto, the _Litzmannstadt, _the name in German , and it was the second-largest ghetto after the one in Warsaw. This was the closest he had been to such a place since he escaped from the Syrets concentration as a child and being near it suddenly stirred up old memories.

A camp had been established there for Romani and Sinti, _Zigeunerlagers_ as the Germans called the gypsies, and was originally intended as a temporary gathering point for Jews.

But the ghetto became a major industrial center, as it's inhabitants in order to support themselves, provided supplies for Germany and their Army. Łódź was so successful that it ensured its survival because of its ghetto managed to last until 1944, when the remaining population was finally transported to Auschwitz and Chełmno extermination camps. He also recalled that it was the last ghetto in Poland to be liquidated.

Thoughts of the Roma held there brought back memories of his gypsy Uncle Vanya who had been killed in the raid on the camp in Bykivnia forest as, with the exception of two men, had been the entire tribe. The pit that he found days later in the forest as he made his way home to the family dacha on the outskirts of Kyiv, was filled with the naked bodies of hundreds of people who had been executed.

Illya remembered that sickening feeling to this day when he saw a body among them that looked like his cousin Anastasiya. His gypsy family had died mercifully at least when compared to their breathren and not suffered in the ghettos and camps as had other Rom and Sinti.*

He couldn't help but recall his own journey to the concentration camp just outside Kyiv right next to Babi Yar, the ravine of death.

_He woke, laying in the back of the transport as it bounced violently along the road, the driver swerving to avoid there wreckage of the collapsed buildings in the streets. Disoriented; he looked at the faces of the other children, searching for Irina but he did not see her among the twenty or more crammed into the back of the truck. He suddenly felt a pair of hands gently lift his head... and realized it was his friend Irina who was behind him as she lay his head in her lap._

_"Illya.."she whispered, crying. Irina's voice shook as she whispered to him", I heard them say something about a camp...Illya they are going to kill us!"_

_"Stop it!" he ordered her quietly" If they were going to kill us then we would be dead." He held his hand to the side of his head, finding it bloodied where he had been struck by the soldier, then he pulled himself up and reaching out he put his arm around her shoulder trying to comfort her._

_"We will just have to wait and not think about it." he reassured her, even though in his heart he knew she was right. They were all probably going to die._

_The Germans took he Irina and the other children to the camp located not far from St. Cyril's Monastery on north-west outskirts of Kyiv. Multiple transports arrived carrying seventy five to one hundred children entered the camp, one after another after another._

_Illya knew as soon as they passed the ravine and smelled the stench of death where they were...Babi Yar. His parents thought he was out of ear-shot when they spoke of it, and what was being done there. He made sure to show no emotion to Irina as the drove by it._

_Their transport pulled into the camp and they were ordered out of the truck and to line up, guided by several matrons dressed in nursing uniforms. They complied without a sound, too frightened even to cry now...thinking if they did, they would be killed there on the spot._

_A Nazi officer walked among their ranks, stopping to look, stopping to touch...the toddlers, the weak and sickly were removed by the matrons, near twenty-five Illya guessed. He watched as they were escorted or carried to the far side of the camp and loaded into a large van. He heard the engine start, but it never drove away...it was the Einsatzgruppen, the mobile killing unit._

_One by one, the children that Illya and Irina cared for fell to exhaustion then disappeared, only to be replaced by new children brought into the camp. _

_As the days passed he and Irina witnessed countless brutalities as the Germans tortured and murdered prisoners, some times just for sport. Illya had had lost all sense of time, and was beginning to lose himself. Illya finally guessed it was summer now, as it was very warm. The smell from the ravine was overwhelming in the heat, even though he had become somewhat accustomed to it; the temperatures now magnified it._

_Every day there were more and more men, women and children brought in from the trains and he watched as they were put into the vans, that were now driven away full, but returned empty._

_Work gangs of prisoners unloaded the bodies in the ravine. The memories of the countless faces continued to be brought in by the trains; some to work, some to die and the images still haunted him after him after all these year, those people reaching out from the grave to him, in his dreams. All those people that were destined to die, the all looked alike to him after a while; their sunken faces, dark and hollowed eyes filled with both the terror of the unknown, or what they did know._

_He watched those wretched __souls; if there were Roma among them he couldn't tell any more, they all looked the same as they were the walking dead to him._

_Illya was surrounded by death, day in and day out as the prisoners in the camp wasted away and when they became too weak to work for their task masters, they too were sent to the vans, if not then died in their sleep of starvation or exhaustion. _

_He watched as those children who were rounded up along with him by the Nazi sweeps in the ruins of Kyiv, die one by one until there were only a few of them left... among them the bully Vasily, that traitor Vasily. _

Illya the man realized how much he hated that name. It was Vasily who became the lackey of their captors, spying on people in the camp and sending the children to be abused by the pedophiles among the Nazi ranks. It was he who sent Irina to Karl Volker to be raped, and the resulting pregnancy sent her to the death vans.

He was glad that Vasily died in the camp. If anyone deserved to die, it was he. Illya tried to shake himself of those thoughts, as his mind then drifted back to the Romani children and their parents who suffered in Lodz, they were labeled "asocial" that is they were thought of ... beggars,vagrants the homeless, alcoholics and essentially the lowest of the low and were racially inferior. They were arrested and sent to ghettos and concentration camps to be used as forced labor or to simply be eliminated. The SS and police decided that "Gypsies" of "pure blood" were harmless and that the "half-breeds," regardless of the percentage of "mixture" of blood, were dangerous and hence deportable.**

Illya supposed the fact that he was blond and blue-eyed had saved him from being executed for being of mixed blood as he would have therefore been considered 'more dangerous.' His looks saved his life back then. And even now no one ever suspected that he was part gypsy, and no one knew except for Elliott and Napoleon.

The gypsies there in Łódź were housed in a separate section of the ghetto. The were looked upon with disdain, even by their fellow detainees when the Roma were transported there. His eidetic memory let him recall details of a speech delivered by Chaim Rumkowski who was in charge of the ghetto, announcing the coming of the Roma.

He spoke of being forced to accept 5,000 gypsies into the ghetto, explaining his belief that they could not live together with them. Stating that they were people who could do nothing to support the ghetto and would simply rob and set fire to everything, including the Nazi factories and materials.**

As dangerous and precarious a position the Jews of Lodz were in, being targeted by the hatred of the Nazis, they let their own fears and hatred of the gypsy people continue as well.

In the end, they were all in the same transports to be exterminated, and there was no differences between them then. Eventually the Łódź ghetto was liquidated, with a few remaining workers retained by the Nazis to finish confiscating materials and valuables out of the ghetto, everyone else had been deported. Even Rumkowski and his family were included in these last transports to Auschwitz. where at least 19,000 of the 23,000 Roma from across Europe died.

Many years later Illya wondered why he had never been shipped off as one of the _Lebensborn_, children who possessed the Aryan features that the Nazis prized. Children with such looks were adopted by German couples and raised as good little Nazis. But then he had been brought to the concentration camp towards the end. The Nazis were busy trying to cover up their crimes as the Red Army advanced towards them and Lebensborn candidates were not exactly a priority. He knew though that had he not escaped from the camp; he would have been executed and his body burned in the ravine at Babi Yar. No one was found alive in Syrets after the Nazis retreated and abandoned it.

If if were not the long memories of the few men he had escaped with from Syrets and their testimony at the Nurembourg trials, then no one might have ever known the truth about Syrets.

He unlike the others who escaped, was a child and was too frightened to speak of what he had seen nor to reveal that he was of a mixed race. He buried those memories and hid the blue-inked tattoo on his arm. If not for the the love of his wife who helped him to open up about his past and the let the truth free him, he would still have it all buried deep within. Napoleon was the only other person he shared some of these details with...but not all. There were still horrible secrets that he could not bear to share with either of them.

Illya found that talking about his past had been at first frightening , yet sill emancipating and it helped him to rid himself of many of the terrible feelings and fears that haunted him.

Once this mission had been completed, he hoped he would be a free of it all. He knew that taking on this assignment would force him to face more of his past, and he was determined that he could do it. He would be a free man on so many different levels he supposed. Free of his past, and free to move forward.

Illya took a deep breath as these were the memories that he had been worried might be triggered by this assignment. Once he had reached Warsaw, he was not looking forward to his return to Kyiv. As good as he was at banishing thoughts and emotions, there was a sense of dread was beginning to rise within him .This was the first time he would back to his home in Kyiv since he was taken away to the State School in Moskva. And that frightened him more that he thought it would. He had told Napoleon of his fears about going home to Russia but not about going to Kyiv...he had no idea this assignment would lead him there.

He could feel his heart begin to beat faster, and knew he needed to control his anxiety.

"I can do this," he told himself. "I am in control of my emotions." For the moment, concentrating on that thought allowed his nerves to calm. But then he looked again in the rear view mirror, still seeing the black car following him at a distance. "Fear is the runation of a man's mind," He said aloud. I will not let my fears control and destroy me."

Illya thought for just a moment of diverting to Łódź to try and rid himself of his tail, as it was only a half hour out of the way, but then he decided not to chance it as it would only add a delay to his arrival in Warsaw and not knowing what he would encounter there; it was better to continue on.

Warsaw...he had never had the opportunity to go there and recalled the what details he knew about it. He spoke out loud recalling information like a human computer.

"It is the capital and largest city of Poland and located on the Vistula River, running roughly 260 kilometres from the Baltic Sea and 300 kilometres from the Carpathian Mountains and splits Poland virtually in half."

"It is known as the _phoenix city_ because it has survived so many wars throughout its history. It was razed to the ground during the Nazi occupation, Hitler having ignored the terms of the capitulation and ordered the entire city to be leveled and the library and museum collections taken to Germany or burned. Monuments and government buildings were blown up by the _Verbrennungs-und Vernichtungskommando_ _burning and destruction detachments. Most of the city was destroyed, including the historic Old Town and the Royal Castle.

When the city was rebuilt after the extensive damage it suffered during the war, exceptional examples of the bourgeois architecture of the later periods were not restored by the Communists, such as the Kronenberg Palace and what was rebuilt was done in the socialist-realism style."

"Fact, facts..." Illya grumbled to himself nervously. What good will they do me now?" He asked himself as he racked his brain. He looked back in the mirror again to see the car still there, and then two words popped into his head..._Vistula river_, and those started him formulating his plan.

For two hours the Mercedes shadowed him, not speeding up unless he did, and remained relentless like a dark shadow in it's pursuit of the little Trabant while it continued along it's route. And then they finally entered Warsaw.

Illya continued along until the road as it merged to Aleja Armii Krajowej but before proceeding to Wybrzeże Gdkieyńs and into the heart of the city, he pulled off and took the car down to the shoreline of the Vistula. The area was deserted, nothing there to bring anyone down that way and it was there he quickly brought the Trabi to a stop and got out, crouching close to the water's edge and using the car for his cover as he drew his Tokarov and waited patiently.

The Mercedes pulled up a few minutes later, moving slowly until it came to a stop as Kapitan Popyrin surveyed the area and the Trabant. He stepped out of the car with his own pistol in his hand, leaving the engine running.

"I know you are here Andropov, come out where I can see you," he shouted." You are not who they think you are...you are a double agent, I am sure of it. Surrender now and I will not kill you. You have my word."

Illya remained silent for a moment. "You are out of your mind Popyrin! Does Lesnichy know what you are up to?"

"Lesnichy is a fool. He thinks you are a hero, but I know better. Now step out with your hands up and I give you my word that you will not be harmed."

"You think I am a fool?" Illya called out.

"Fine then," Popyrin aimed at the Trabi, shooting out two of the tires."

"Chyort." Illya cursed as he raised his pistol, aiming carefully at the KGB agent and firing at him. Popyrin returned fire, hitting the rear of the Tranbant, and Illya dove out from behind the car firing at him again.

Popyrin went down as he was hit in the shoulder, but fired his gun again and for a few minutes a firefight ensued between both men while laying low on the ground.

The KBG agent's weapon suddenly misfired, giving Illya that split second advantage to raise himself up, taking careful aim and hitting his attacker directly in the head, watching the man fall backwards with a muffled thud as he hit the ground.

Illya approached the body carefully, checking to make sure Popyrin was indeed dead, and relieved him of any cash and extra ammo clips. Then he dragged the body, shoving it into the Mercedes that was still idling in spite of being riddled with bullets.

He put it into neutral, rolling it as he steered it toward the river, then wedging Popyrin's foot on the accelerator he pushed the stick into gear, sending the vehicle careening into the water. He watched as it slowly sunk beneath the river, leaving no trace.

If and when the police investigated the Trabant that he was now forced to leave behind, they would eventually discover that it was owned by the German government. As to the KGB revealing who was it's last driver, that remained to be seen. He would still follow the plan, reporting to Moscow and if he was questioned over the event he would claim that thugs tried to rob him and nothing more.

Illya would now have to walk to his appointed meeting place, and looked at his watch. He had time and it wasn't that much farther by foot. He retrieved the map and his duffle from his car then started back up to take the ramp to Wybrzeże Gdkieyńs from there he turned right onto Boleść the took the third left onto Brzozowa into the Old Town Square to find the mermaid.

All he knew was that he was to meet his next C.I.A. contact there beside the statue of the Warsaw Mermaid in the Old Town Market Place. He had arrived with only fifteen minutes to spare thanks to Popyrin, but none the less he had made it.

He studied the bronze statue depicting a mermaid armed with a sword and shield that was a survivor of the Nazi campaign of destruction. It was a representation of the symbol of the city that dated as far back as the 14th century.

No one knew the true origin of the syrenka, but one legend said that that long ago two of Triton's daughters set out on a journey through the depths of the oceans and seas. One of them decided to stay on the coast of Denmark and can be seen sitting at the entrance to the port of Copenhagen. The second mermaid reached the mouth of the Vistula River and plunged into its waters. She stopped to rest on a sandy beach by the village of Warszowa, where fishermen came to admire her beauty and listen to her beautiful voice. A greedy merchant also heard her songs; he followed the fishermen and captured the mermaid.

Another legend said that the mermaid swam to Warsaw from the Baltic Sea for the love of the Griffin, the ancient defender of the city, who was killed in a struggle against the Swedish invasions of the 17th century. The mermaid, wishing to avenge his death, took the position of defender of Warsaw, becoming the symbol of the city.

He glanced at his watch again then looked up, seeing a young woman approaching him and cringed at the thought of his last encounter with a female C.I. A. operative. He breathed a sigh of relief as she just smiled at him as she continued walking past.

Then a young man, perhaps barely the age of twenty stepped towards him. He was dressed like a student and carried a telltale rucksack bulging with text books.

He stopped and looked up at the bronze. "Ona jest naprawdę piękna, nie jest ona nasze syreny_she really is beautiful our mermaid, isn't she?"

That was the code." Jak jej siostra w Kopenhadze_ as is her sister in Copenhagen." Illya gave the coded reply.

"Is all well with you?" The young man asked as he knelt, tying a shoelace.

"So far, I had a little problem with my shadow today, but that was taken care of."

"You were followed?" the man hissed."

"Yes and I took care of him. He was alone and I am convinced he was operating alone." Illya pulled up the collar of his leather jacket, then glanced at the sky." It looks like snow," he said softly.

"Yes winter refuses to let spring show herself this year, you better take this. "The man removed his black woolen coat handing it over him.."

"I cannot take your coat!"

"Your instructions are in the breast pocket, and better you change your appearance. Get rid of that leather jacket, as here it makes you look suspicious. With all the demonstrations that are going on the police are picking up anyone who looks the least bit credible. You cannot afford any such delay, and buy your self a hat once you cross the border, get a ushhanka for yourself...you will look like someone who should not be bothered and not a criminal. Understood?"

"Tak rosumiane_yes I understand." I have one problem, I have lost my mode of transportation."

The man bit his lip, knowing they were not supposed to give him assistance, Klein would kill him for this. "Dobra, idź do Napoleona. Sklep spożywczo - monopolowy. Sobczyński Ulica_ Alright then, go to Napoleon Grocery and liquor store on Sobczyński Street. Tell them that Celestyn told you to bring greetings to his _Uncle Samuel_ from him. They will help you."

Illya took the coat from the man, and watched as he disappeared, but smiled at the address he had been given and took it as a good omen. Then he gave the piece of clothing a quick search for any sort of device and found nothing but the note with his instructions on where to proceed to in Moskva. He was to meet is contact at the statue of Kuzma Minin and Dmitry Pozharsky, in front of St. Basil's cathedral in Red Square. He knew it well and there was no need for him to memorize any of the details.

He tore the paper up into small pieces, tossing bits of it down a sewer drain, then some into a dust bin as he walked past it, heading towards Sobczyński Street.

.

* ref "Beginnings"

** ref (Alan Adelson and Robert Lapides (ed.). _Lodz Ghetto: Inside a Community Under Siege_. NY: 1989, pg. 173).


	18. Chapter 18

Illya located the address that his contact had given him, though if the man's name was actually Celestyn, he was not sure. It was more than likely a code and surely Uncle Samuel stood for the American figure Uncle Sam.

A small brass bell not unlike the one in Del Floria's, tinkled his entrance into the nondescript store. The shelves were moderately stocked, and it surprised him there were no lines waiting outside as he thought of people gathering outside the State run stores in Russia in hopes of coming away with something. Could this place be privately owned he wondered? Perhaps things were changing here as well as in Czechkoslovakia.

An older, grey-haired man looked up from behind the counter with a congenial smile. "Witam może mi pomóc_hello may I help you?"

Illya glanced around, noting the nearest person was in the back of the shop, an old Panni with a babushka scarf tied round her head and holding a wicker basket on her arm.

He leaned close to the man, resting his hand on the counter to support himself as he spoke softly. " Przynoszę pozdrowienia w imieniu Celestyn dojego wuja Samuela_I bring greetings on behalf of Celestyn to his Uncle Samuel."

The man's face blanched for a moment, then looking around the store himself he then whispered, "Proszę ze mną_Come with me, quickly."

He lead Illya behind the counter, through a door leading to a storage room in the back.

"Kim jesteś_ who are you?"

"Ktoś nie chcesz wiedzieć_someone you do not want to know. I am in need of help and my contact sent me to you. I need a car, can you help me or not?" Illya asked bluntly.

"Tak, masz rację ... lepiej nie wiem. I mamsamochodu można użyć, to nie jest w świetnej formie. Czy jesteś przydatny z silnikami_yes you are right... better I not I have a car you can have but it is not in great shape. Are you handy with engines?"

"A bit." Illya answered.

"Alright then, let me finish with the last customer and I'll take you to it. Wait here please?"

Illya was a little nervous trusting the man, how did he not know the fellow was not calling the secret police right now to come get him? At the moment, he had no choice but to accept him.

Fifteen minutes later the man re-appeared, removing his apron and putting on his coat.

"Come, this way." He gestured with his arm.

Illya followed him out of the back of the store, looking cautiously as they stepped into an alley. There was a fence blocking it at the front, the back of it lead out to a small access road.

They walked out to it, then crossed to a small corrugated metal building held together with bits and bobs of wood and metal. It looked as though if a strong wind would topple it over easily. Inside was parked the vehicle the man referred to.

Illya eyed the old car with pursed lips. It was a two-door Syrena, named for the Mermaid of Warsaw and guessed that it had to be from the 1950's. The shop-keeper was not kidding when he said that it was in rough shape.

This car had indeed seen better times; it's pale grey paint flaked away in the many dings and dents replaced with spots of rust and decay. He gave one of the tires a kick, noting that they were beginning to bald.

This particular model was a car that shared many parts with the Warszawa, an older Polish-made car and as a result the Syrena was much heavier. They were known for their sturdiness and ruggedness, but due to their weight, they were underpowered and had high fuel consumption.

The model had an odd looking front to it and with the way the grill, headlights and bonnet were positioned shaped, it had always reminded him of a grimacing face.

He he lifted the bonnet, looking at the engine then shook his head. "And when was the last time this you had this running?"

"A month ago perhaps."

"Is there petrol in it?"

"Yes nearly a full tank. I was driving it, bringing in some fresh produce from a local farm when it began to sputter and stall."

"Keys?"

"Are in the ignition."

"Try to start it."Illya said, taking off his coat and rolling up his sleeves.

The man climbed into the drivers seat, turned the key and the engine started ran for a minute, then shuddered and stalled.

He shrugged his shoulders to Illya."

"Do you have tools?"

"Yes, they are in the back in the trunk," he said opening it up and producing a red metal bucket. He handed it to Illya."

No matter, the car had to do. It would be too risky for him to try to steal a car in the city, so Kuryakin went right to work, adjusting tightening and loosening what he could. The engine was filthy and probably had never really been seen by a qualified mechanic. He checked every connection possible and an hour later he tried starting the car again.

It kicked over but this time it didn't stall and he let it idle for about fifteen minutes before he cut the engine, satisfied it was in fairly good running condition.

"Well done," the old man smiled. She is yours now. If you take the left out of here it will take you to a road that will lead you to the motorway." He did not ask where he was headed, and in truth, did not want to know. Then he simply said," Do widzenia i powodzenia_good bye and good luck."

"Dziękuję, będzie mi potrzebny_thank you I will need it." Illya answered softly

His duffle was tossed into the onto the passenger side of the the bench seat, then restarted the car, pulling out onto the access road, and turning in the direction the old man had told him to go in order to reach E8. He looked back in the rear view mirror and watched as the his benefactor disappeared into the alley.

The rickety Syrena headed out northwest on Brzozowa toward Mostowa where Illya suddenly found himself caught in the middle of a demonstration as large numbers of students carrying placards and signs of protest as they suddenly poured around him. Then he spotted the military coming down the street after them, with a lumbering vehicle mounted with a water cannon. Soldiers marched behind it armed with clear shields as rocks and bottles were hurled in their direction.

He needed to get out of there fast and put the car in reverse hurtling it in reverse up Mostowa, nearly having a collision with a small truck that had just pulled around the corner. He swerved the car as the truck driver screamed at him in Polish, hitting the horn...then the man spotted the demonstrators and the military and ceased his rantings, pinning his wheel to turn onto the street that the Syrena had gone on after just missing the collision with him.

Everything was in chaos as Illya tried taking turn after turn to get away, but it was of no use and he finally pulled off into an alley to avoid the rush of people that were running everywhere. He remained there for two hours, not daring to move to the street, lest he be picked up by the police.

He studied his map, determining his best route and when things had finally quieted down and he started the car, cautiously pulling out to the street. There were no pedestrians and only one or two cars and he followed his new route until he found himself back the motorway; it would take him another three and a half hours to the border crossing in Brest, then another nine hours before he reached Kyiv, then from twelve hours to reach Moskva.

The thought of that seemed nearly overwhelming. He was tired and the pain in his eyes was ever present, but still he had to press on and if he made good time, then he would stop in Brest.

He needed to sleep, free his eyes of the lenses and his body was telling him to feed it. When he was younger such things would have been brushed off, and he would have steeled himself to bear it, but now he realized that the years were catching up on him, and the wear and tear that his body had taken was beginning to show. He only hoped that he could last until at least reached Brest before his body shut down.

He crossed the border too late at Brest, but at least without incident as he skirted through Belarus taking a secondary motorway across into the Ukraine, but dusk was soon approaching and he needed to find a place to sleep for the night.

The episode with Popyrin had sent his adrenaline surging, then having to concentrate on fixing the car, evading the demonstrators and driving again for hours without benefit of food had drained what energy reserves he had left, and his body was ready to shut down.

It was already dark and he needed desperately to remove the contact lenses from his eyes but there would be no chance of finding a comfortable place in which to hide in the nearby town once the sun had gone down, as he was sure that people there locked their doors at night and feared men who came in the darkness; the memories of the Germans, the Red Army, NKVD and subsequent clandestine government groups still lingering in their minds.

The fear of the Secret Police was no doubt foremost in their minds. That being the case, he decided to pull the old Syrena into the woods safe from the of view of prying eyes, and would garner what ever sleep her could there.

Once the car had been safely hidden deep among the heavy growth of pine trees, he removed the lenses and after doing so his eyes felt like someone had rubbed ground glass into them. The delicate contacts were cleaned with saline then put into the protective vial that he carried. Then he poured more of the solution into his eyes, feeling more pain instead of being soothed by it. He was in need of a shower and shave and his shirt needed changing, but he would have to do without.

There were a few shirts a pair of pants, underwear and a shaving kit in the duffle, but nothing of significance that he could use for warmth.

Illya looked around at his surroundings, wondering it were safer for him to sleep outside the car but given the temperature and the possibility of snow he opted to take his chance, lying down in the back seat of the car, thinking it was just his luck that it was an abnormally cold start to the season.

He still had the leather jacket and put that on, using the black woolen coat as a blanket and the duffle as his pillow with the ushanka on his head, would help him from losing body heat. He fell asleep instantly as he was exhausted. Though hungry as usual but would survive that, sleep was more important. He'd nearly starved to death twice in his life so going without a meal or two was of no real significance.

He thought of those times of starvation, once when as a child in Kyiv after having escaped from the concentration camp when he was but ten, then last year again when he was a prisoner in the Solovki gulag, yet both times he managed to survive. * His high metabolism would result in a headache from not eating, but once on the way in the morning he would be sure to find something along the way.

He dreamt of his childhood that night, the dacha and his family. But they were blessedly pleasant dreams and not the nightmares that had haunted him for years. His father was playing his concertina and his mother and babushka were singing. To him theirs were the voices of angels as they harmonized together singing the song Katyusha, a wartime song about a girl longing for her beloved, who was away on military service.

_"Rastsvetali yabloni i grushi, Paplyli tumany nad rekoy._

_Vykhodila na bereg Katyusha, Na vysokii bereg na krutoy..."_

_"Apple and pear trees were blooming._

_O'er the river the fog merrily rolled._

_On the steep banks walked Katyusha,_

_On the high bank she slowly strode._

_As she walked she sang a sweet song_

_Of her silver eagle of the steppe,_

_Of the one she loved she loved so dearly,_

_And the one whose letters she had kept_

_O you song! Little song of a young girl,_

_Fly over the river and in the sunlight go._

_And fly to my hero far from me,_

_From his Katyusha bring him a sweet hello._

_Will he remember this plain young girl,_

_And her sweet song like a dove,_

_As he stands guarding his proud nation,_

_So Katyusha_ will guard their love."

When he awoke just past dawn and felt as though he had been hit with a sledge hammer. As he had guessed, it had snowed during the night and the windshield was covered with a fine dusting of white. He stepped out of the car, scooping up some of the clean snow and swallowing some of it into his parched mouth.

He took out his shaving kit, then with more of the snow, dampened his shaving soap and gave himself a quick shave, changed his shirt, then combed back his hair to at least look more presentable. He poured more of the saline into his eyes, then put the contacts in, climbed back into the car with a long sigh as he headed into town.

It should have been busy and bustling with life and movement as he drove down the main street, but it seemed surprisingly quiet. On the outskirts of Brest was farmland and abandoned factories, and ruined remnants of the great war. That he saw everywhere, like wounds upon the land even though the war ended nearly twenty three years ago, signs of it were ever present. After the war the Soviet take over scarred the land and the people further.

"Once burned, twice shy," he murmured the idiom to himself. The people of Brest would most certainly be cautious, as their experiences had most surely left them in a continuous state of apprehension, staring at any unfamiliar face. Secret police were everywhere, and given the current uproar inspired by Dubçek they presence would be more pervasive.

The suspicions of those who lived during the war and Communist take over would be particularly wary. The young however, like the students in Warsaw seemed to be rising above the fears of their parents.

He sat in the car for a bit, then decided to walk about to see if he could at least find someplace to get a meal. The streets finally springing to life as people began to fill them, going about their daily taskes and keeping their noses buried in their business. He watched as they walked past a majestic Soviet war memorial that had been erected on the site of the 1941 battle to commemorate the known and unknown defenders of the Hero-Fortress; it and the city had been attacked by the Nazis at the beginning of Operation Barbarossa. They held out for six days but the city was abandoned by the Soviet army, just as they had abandoned Kyiv. He found it ironic that the local government found time enough to build it's monuments but not parts of it's town.

Illya continued walking along the streets, wandering amongst ruins that were still evident, yet around them the town seemed to be alive as he saw what looked like affluent households, with merchants and artisans going about their tasks, busy in their professions, in the stores and the workshops, in moderate wealth and in poverty.

There were no Poles among the population now, only ethnic Belorussians as Brest's status as part of the Byelorussian Soviet Socialist Republic had been officially recognized in spite of Polish protests and the Polish residents of the city after 1000 years of history, were forced to emigrate and the majority left for Communist Poland. In a way it was like Hitler's policy of ethnic cleansing, though not on such and immense scale...the Soviets were just as guilty of mass murders...

He found a small store front restaurant that was open, and he stepped inside warily and looking about studying the few people there. No one attempted to look at him, and kept their heads down minding their own business as they ate their bowls of Kashi and drank their strong coffee.

He sat at a small table back by the kitchen door, as a woman approached him with an unhappy face, looking as though she were lost in the drudgery of her existence.

"Coffee?"

"Niama_ no, I would prefer tea and kashi. Do you have dranki, and smoked salmon with sour cream?" Knowing there had once been a heavy Jewish influence in Brest he had ordered the equivalent of latkes and lox.

"Dy_yes I have potato pancakes and salmon, but I don't know you, show me that you have the money to pay for this."

Illya threw a few kopeks on the table and that seemed to satisfy her as she smiled. A few minutes later she arrived with his breakfast. She had given him hearty portions comensurate with the amount of money he had shown her.

"You have large appetite for one so skinny."

Illya sighed, as there were times he was tired of being told that but nodded, nodding to her as she scooped the money from the table. Illya wolfed down the food, then pulled his thermos from his pocket asking for it to be filled with tea and asked as some slices of rye bread and salmon to be wrapped so that he could eat it later.

She gladly obliged for a price of course, even though the original kopeks he had given her should have been more than enough to pay. She jingled the coins in her hand she called for the handsome auburn-haired man to come back soon.

He walked out onto the now bustling streets of Brest. It was situated where the Bug River and Mukhavets rivers met and a busy shipping port and it was all coming to life now.

Illya wandered to get some fresh air in hopes that it would revitalize him before getting back into the car. He found himself on one of the bridges looking back it as it seemed like an illusion that the city was farther away, a pastoral scene on the far side of the bridge he now stood on, and softened the view around him.

There widespread meadows used for grazing cows and goats, for games, for youth movement gatherings, and especially for soccer matches as he saw children gathering, tipping the soccer ball from their feet and knees. The Dneiper-Bug Canal., the longest inland ship canal in Belarus that connects the Mukhavets River, a tributary of the Bug, the Pina and Pripyat Rivers, and it linked the Baltic and Black Seas. But all he thought of was the Dnieper, and it's ties with home, as Kyiv lay on the banks of that river.

He stared down into the water beneath the old wooden bridge which rested on thick, tightly-fitted and interwoven wooden pylons, his gaze drawn to the flowing water which carried in its current the refuse of distant places, from beaches and settlements along its way.

There was an isolated boat being tied off in the hands of a fisherman, a laundress kneeling at the waters edge, busy with her washing, and far off in the distance at the bend in the river there were bathers diving into the chilly water from the decrepit remnants of a dock.

The water was filthy, yet that did not stop life from trudging on. The twists and turns of the rivers currents, in one spot strayed among some thick reeds and farther down it narrowed, looking like twisting brook with arms here and there, rivulets creating an isolated island of sorts where a few trees grew, joining together in a wide spill on one side of the bridge.

He walked back towards town along long streets with one-story houses, some paltry and tumbledown, others new and substantial, well-kept. The air was flooded with the scents of their gardens and fields which gave it the appearance of a village; for here the big city had not yet taken over with its straight lines and crowded conditions .

Illya continued on, mindful that he could not delay much longer and he picked up his pace, entering the streets and passing the buildings of the left bank that were the older, moldering houses of the city with cramped lanes and yards, fenced and leveled, disordered, bustling with life and crowded with humanity.

The sounds of a sawmill with the high-pitched endless whine of it's saws filled the air, the pounding of hammers with the roar of bellows from a blacksmith blended with the whirring of the cranes from the shipyard, creating a cacophonous symphony.

It was the sounds of life, and of arduous labor echoing around him , yet while he had been on the bridge, it seemed as though the city was farther away making the wide, green meadows on the far side of the river seem like another world. One of peace and tranquility.

Illya climbed back into the Syrena, and after finding a place to fill it with petrol, then heaved a long sigh as his journey back to reality began again. He started the car, put it in gear and headed out from the fuel station towards the motorway again. His next stop would not be until he reached Kyiv. Home. He dreaded it, yet at the same time, he ached to see it.

"Kyiv" Illya uttered. Just over nine hours away."Uuugh," he moaned at the thought of the trip there, not for emotional reasons, but for the physicality of it alone.

.

* ref "Beginnings" and "The Gambit Affair"


	19. Chapter 19

Elliott left the funeral parlor accompanied by Napoleon and Bella as they accompanied her back home. Once inside the limousine they breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"That had to have been awful for you," Bella said, putting her arm around Elliott's shoulder.

"Yah, it was. But I have ta say Napoleon, that eulogy was..."

"Don't go there, please? Otherwise I'll start to get a little emotional myself," he said. "it wasn't easy standing up there saying those words. I know he's on a mission and I truly believe that he'll make it through, even though I'm not there to cover his skinny Russian ass..."

"That remark made Elliott chuckle. "Yes after all these years and all that food he eats, he still has a skinny bum doesn't he?"

Bella remained silent, somewhat incredulous that the topic of conversation had drifted to discussing the size of Illya's butt.

When they arrived at the Kuryakin residence, Olga was waiting just outside the vestibule looking visibly distraught. She rushed down the steps and through the gate to Elliott's arms.

She felt a moment of panic but tried not to let herself jump to conclusions. "What's wrong...are the children alright?"

Olga sniffed, releasing her grip as she dabbed her reddened eyes with a Kleenex. "Sweetheart I'm so sorry." Her face was filled with sadness, and she looked as though she were about to burst into tears again as she saw how they were all dressed. "There was a funeral already, why wasn't I told?"

"What's happened Olga...the children!" Elliott's voice went up in pitch.

"No no...Illuyshenka. Baskets of fruit and flowers arrived and I read the cards. The children are asleep and Demya didn't see them."

"Olga, let's go inside now, please?" Napoleon said, ushering her and the others inside the house.

"Olga, I'm so sorry I should have told you, I was so preoccupied... he's alright. It's part of his cover for his assignment," Elliott told her." He's not dead."

"Not dead? Oh thank God!" Olga blurted out with sob as she grabbed Elliott in a hug. Elliott whispered into her ear." Mne tak zhalʹ , mozhete li vy prostitʹ menya_ I'm so sorry, can you forgive me?"

"Sushchestvuet nichego prostitʹ moikh blizkikh_there is nothing to forgive my dearest. I understand." Olga answered as she released her hold.

Elliott eyed the baskets on the dining room table." Dammit! What don't people understand about no cards and flowers? She walked into the dining room eyeing three flower arrangements and a large basket containing an assortment of fruits and a ham."

She stopped herself for a minute, breathing in the wonderful scents of the blossoms. "These have got ta go." I'll not have Demmy see these."

She picked up the cards, one was from the secretarial pool, another from section VIII, and the basket from her own Section III. She stopped herself from growling, realizing these things were sent as an act of kindness, and realized she had to be a little forgiving. Illya was dead to these people...people who obviously cared about him and his family. But no matter, the flowers as beautiful as they were had to go, she'd not have her son prompted to be asking more questions. The fruit and the ham could stay as she'd not waste food.

Bella and Olga gathered up the flowers, intending to take them down to the trash then Olga stopped, having a better idea. "I think we should take them to _Our Lady of Pompeii_ over on Carmine Street and drop them off there, the church can always use a donation of flowers for the altar...it's not even a ten minute walk from here."

Bella told Elliott and Napoleon of the plan and they agreed it was the better thing to do. "Here," Elliott said, handing some money for the donation box, "light a candle for Illuysha will ye?" Then Napoleon helped them out the door with the baskets of flowers balanced on their arms.

Elliott went into the kitchen to make some coffee, taking the basket with her, emptying some of the fruit into a bowl that she put on the kitchen table, then the rest of the contents went in the pantry and refrigerator.

Napoleon walked in, taking over making the coffee.

" Are ye hungry, we've some left over goulash in the fridge," she asked.

"You know that sounds really good right now. But I'll take care of it, you go change and look in on the kids...the _head cook and bottle washer is here."_

She laughed at that then opened one of the kitchen drawers, pulling out an apron and draping it over his head. "Here I think ye'll need this," she smiled.

He looked down, reading the print on the apron then chucked. "Kiss me I'm Russian. He actually wears this?"

"Unh-huh. Don't ye dare tell him I told ye either." She wagged her finger at him then went to change her clothes.

Napoleon was glad to hear that she was maintaining a positive outlook.

Elliott went upstairs, peeking into the children's rooms, seeing them both still asleep, then went to her bedroom, slipping out of her dress and hanging it up in the closet. For a moment she reached in taking hold of one of Illya's suit jackets, pulling it to her face and breathing deeply.

Demya wandered into his parent's bedroom unannounced, rubbing his eyes from his nap and seeming a little out of sorts.

"Mama?"

Elliot grabbed her robe, quickly slipping it on. "Demmy, it's not polite to come in like that without knocking first." Then she looked at his face.

"What's wrong sweetheart?"

"I had a bad dream"

"Oho, bad dream is it, ye tell Mam about it now," she said, pulling him into her arms, then sat on the bed holding him in her lap.

"Tell me, do ye remember it?"

"I saw a man...he looked like Papa, but he didn't...he had hair like yours Mama and someone was chasing him and he was scared. Then he was crying."

Elliott felt instant panic as her son had described his father disguised as Kiril. Demya had shown hints of the _gift _of being able to sense things, just like Illya did. "Ah sure, Demmy I think maybe it might have been too much television...I'll have ta ask Carmines mother and father not ta let ye watch it as much when ye are over their house."

Demya Kuryakin looked at his mother suspiciously, then slipped out of her lap. "No Mama, I think I was dreaming about Papa. I've done it before and what I dreamt was true. I think someone is chasing Papa." He actually spoke with confidence, then walked awya as if he were in a huff, leaving his mother with her mouth hanging open.

.

Illya headed east onto Labor Street, then turned to Vulical Lejatenanta Riabcava, then continued on several other streets and right turns until he returned to the motorway. The closer he got to Kyiv, the more nervous his stomach began to feel, he'd eaten his sandwiches and drank his tea cold, but now he felt like he was going to be sick and pulled over to the side of the road. He opened the door, and vomited. When it was over, he wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, convincing himself into believing a piece of the salmon must have been bad..."yes that was what caused it."

It was time for him to detour off the motorway, taking a more rural route and five and a half hours of driving when he arrived in the town of Sarny. He remembered once going there with his father when he was very small...his father had been looking for work to supplement their larders for the winter.

As he pulled into the small town he could see remnants of war remained there as well, After the Soviet invasion of Poland in Sarny became a concentration point for units under command of General Wilhelm Orlik-Rückemann. It took place under cover of the "Sarny" regiment itself and was stemming the attack of a Soviet Rifle Division based on strong fortifications of Sarny Fortified crew of a single bunker lasted out in its position up to 19 September, delaying advance of Soviet units. Some of the bunkers making up this line Illya could see still existed.

He remembered that specific date because it was his birthday. There were so many reminders of the war that surrounded him physically, but there were times that he cursed his eidetic memory. There were things he wanted to forget about but could not, he could bury them deep within his subconscious, but at the moment there were just too many physical reminders for his mind to escape..

He tried pushing it all aside again, deciding that here in Sarny he would take a brief rest before heading onto Kyiv. He found himself a room to rent for a few hours, feeling at least that he was not being observed and this allowed him to remove the damnable lenses.

Whether Popyrin had acted on his own or not; he could not be completely sure. But eventually the man was going to be missed...that was why he had to continue along as if everything was normal.

If the body was found in the river in Warsaw, then perhaps Popyrin's death would be attributed to the demonstrators and unrest going on there and not associated with him. His continuation of his assignment to do the courier drop had to proceed as normal.

He looked in the mirror, deciding he needed a bath and a shave, and for an extra price did exactly that. Illya sighed deeply as he lowered his tired body into the tub of hot water, ducking his head beneath it's warmth.

He then scrubbed himself then his hair vigorously with some bar soap. Once rinsed clean, he found the water tinged slighly pink and realized he needed to be careful about the dye in his hair. It was supposed to be a permanent color, but something in the soap...perhaps lye, had stripped some of the coloration.

He lay there in the warmth of the water, nodding off until someone banged loudly on the door wanting to take their turn.

"Maje prabačenni , ja zasnuŭ_my apologies, I fell asleep," he called out in Belarussian. Then got out of the tub, and drained and cleaned it, the he toweled himself dry and quickly dressed in his pants and undershirt. He had left the contacts in his room, but had his tinted glasses with him and put those on to cover his eyes as he padded barefoot past the burly man who was waiting to bathe.

He smelled terrible and Illya was glad that he had gotten to the tub before this one had. Kuryakin returned to his room, finding nothing had been disturbed, then not even bothering to change, he dowsed his eyes with saline, the slipped under the covers and was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow

It was a dreamless sleep, one of exhaustion and when he woke, it was dark outside. "Chert vozʹmi !" he cursed, as he had overslept.

He finished dressing himself, then gathered his things leaving the room key with the owner as he heading out into the night air.

Once on the road again in the Syrena he headed south onto Hostomelskoe, then to Horodskaya street and after several more turns he continued on to Academician Palladyna Avenue, left onto Stetsenko Street. Then Schueseva, Bolshaya Zhitomirsky, Myhaylovskay Street... four hours later he pulled onto Khreshchatyk Street the main thoroughfare ofKyiv. He had no need of a map for these street names, nor help in knowing which way to turn.

He knew these street all too well as he had learned them as a child when he would have to walk many of them coming to and from his school in the city. But eventually that stopped, school had been closed as the threat of war loomed over the Soviet Union.

At home his father and brother taught him other things...the intricacies of survival became more important than his studies, though he never put aside his books.

His father had quite a few books, those that had survived the book burnings and purges...ones that belonged to his grandfather. And Illya would pour over those by candlelight in the evening after the days lessons, chores and meals were done.

Once on Khreshchatyk, he just stopped, snf staring into the darkened street, he began to shake. The feelings were almost overwhelming at first. He was _home. _The home of his dreams with it's memories both good and bad. Home.

He got out of the car, walking along the sidewalk crossing over to the Kyiv Passage a small, narrow arched gate, located in the centre of the city right off the main street of Khreschatyk. Everything was closed now as it was late, but he could see many small outdoor cafés and stores on the buildings first floors and residential apartments on the upper ones.

He remembered the street well, though the buildings were not the same and he recalled the stories that his father had told when word of the German occupation had spread.

_Looting began immediately. Then the Germans moved into Kiev's downtown on Khreschatyk Street. Five days after the Germans entered Kiev - a bomb exploded around four o'clock in the afternoon at the German headquarters. The Germans were shocked. Then they cordoned off the area and gathered people in the vicinity as suspects. Then another building on Khreschatyk exploded. The Germans and those they had assembled fled for safety._

_For days bombs exploded in buildings along the main street that had been occupied. Many Germans and civilians were killed and injured._

After the war, it was determined that a group of NKVD members were left behind by the Soviet Army to offer some resistance against the conquering Germans. But during the war, the Germans declared it was the work of Jews, and retaliated for the bombings against the Jewish population of Kyiv.

The only thing that remained now was unchanged was the passage gate at the end of the street. He remembered being with his mother when she used to come into the here to shop for a few necessities, but that was before the war began. The lack of familiarity helped soothe the nervousness that had gripped him at first. So much of the city had been laid to ruin by both the retreating Red Army and the invading Germans and he knew it would be different from when he was last here as a child, the just didn't dawn on him how much it would had changed.

Walking about helped him get over his jitters, then he decided to go towards Andriyivskyy descent, just simply walking, remembering and smelling the scents of what had been his world.

It was not time for him to make his drop, that would be late tomorrow afternoon, and he decided it was best to find a room for the night.

He had most of the day to wander about the city, deciding it was good to as he most likely would never return this way again...

He turned back to Khreschatyk heading towards _Kalinin Square,_ seeing very little that was familiar to him. During the first couple years after the war, he knew the square had been completely rebuilt from scratch. It was architecturally integrated with the rebuilt Khreschatyk in the typical neo-classical Stalinist architecture. The newly constructed _Kyiv_ _Central Post Office_ and _Trade-Union House_ with its high-rise clock located in the square were the only real things of interest there.

Illya finally found himself a small hotel, and prepaying for the night and the next day; he headed upstairs to the simply furnished but clean room. He locked the door behind him, then threw his duffle on the floor as he exhaled, then removed the contacts, stripped to his underwear and literally fell into the bed. The cramped quarters of the Trabant had done a number on him, killing his back and legs and then switching to the larger Syrena helped but not by much. The constant driving sent him into an exhausted, but restless dream-filled sleep, dreams triggered by his being home.

_" Illie , igratʹ so mnoĭ... pozhaluĭsta_Illie, play with me...please?" Katiya called to him. _

"_Nyet," he sat on the half-built stone wall behind the dacha._

_Katiya stood in front of him, stiff lipped with her arms crossed in front of her, her expression imitating his own appearance._

"_Pozhaluĭsta?" She batted her bright blue eyes at him as her red hair blew wildly in the wind, then he suddenly leapt off the wall, grabbing her as he tumbled down to the ground with her in his arms, the two laughing and giggling as he tickled her. Then she suddenly began to scream, a horrific blood-curdling scream of fear._

_Illya suddenly felt heat, flames_..."_Katiya!" She was not in his arms and cried out to her as he watched the dacha go up in flames. *_

He woke with a gasp, and sweating, cursing his nightmare but then took deep breaths calming himself. Though he closed his eyes again, he could still see the images of the burning dacha.

"Why will it not leave me?"he moaned. That was so long ago, and yet the memory of that night and so many others haunted him. "Why can I not just remember the good things...there were good things too?" He concentrated on the image of his mothers face, but it was no longer clear to him.

There was just a vagueness, a blur, his Babushka too and Papa and Dimitry, Sasha and Misha... they were all fading. He could still hear their voices in his dreams now, but saw only ethereal images, only Katiya's face was the one that was still visible, or was he seeing Lourdes?

He didn't know anymore, he had only the memories of a frightened eight year old boy and those intermingled with the images of his little Lala, his child that he adored as he had his baby sister.

The loneliness of those days and nights he spent as a child, alone in his hideout in the ruins filled him.

"Nyet, ya ne mogu etogo dopustitʹ. U menya yestʹrabota_no, I cannot let this happen. I have a job to do. Illya closed his eyes again, willing himself to sleep. But then he suddenly realized he had another job to do, he had to rid himself of his ghosts.

He woke up before dawn, too early to make the drop, so he bathed and shaved and dressed himself, then headed out into the city. He found a small café serving food and took advantage of that opportunity and ordered Syrniki_ fried quark cheese pancakes, garnished with honey, and a pot of tea. They seemed to not serve any sort of breakfast meal, and the Syrniki were satisfying, bringing back the memories of his grandmother making them.

Illya ate quickly as was his habit, paid for his meal then left as he prepared himself for his emotional journey home, something he knew that he _needed _to do and would only take a few hours before he had to make the courier drop.

Illya drove out to the west of the city to where the family dacha had once been. Then parking the car on what now was a modernized street, where once it was a dirt road, he ventured along it. So much had changed and there were signs of construction everywhere when he found the spot. The woods behind where the dacha had stood were gone, in its place stood cold concrete apartment buildings.

The half-built stone wall was still there, the one his father never finished and it was nearly covered among the overgrowth of weeds. The burnt and charred wood of the dacha had long since disintegrated but he spotted the stone steps to the front door that Papa and Dimitry had built.

Behind him, across the road the trees that he hid in were still there, that fateful night that his home was destroyed by the Germans... taller and fuller now and it looked like they too would soon be the victims of progress as heavy equipment, and lorries were parked close to them.

He stared back at the place the dacha once stood, his emotions welling up this time, and he carefully wiped the tears from his eyes with his handkerchief, trying to convince himself it was from the contact lenses.

"Katiya," he whispered reverently, " Eto ya, tvoĭ brat ..._it is me, your brother. It is _Illie._"

The wind whistled through the trees, rustling the barely grown Spring leaves, making them sound like whispers, and just then a lone wolf howled very far off in the distance, yet there was no response. Its world was disappearing, and just like he the wolf was alone here, with no one to return it's call.

The sky was filled with grey and foreboding clouds, and Illya could feel there was snow in them. His Baba had taught him about reading the clouds to judge the weather.

"I am sorry I left you little sister," he whispered as the tears continued to stream down his cheeks while he stared at the remnants of the dacha.

"I should have stayed with you...I should have died with you. Can you forgive me for leaving?"

Illya didn't really expect an answer, but asked anyway, "Daĭ mneznak Katiya_ give me a sign Katiya?

The skies were dark, again looking like they were aching for a last effort of an early Spring snow. It was very quiet, then the sun broke through the clouds, sending a ray of light onto the spot where the dacha used to be.

Then he saw it, a reflection and at first he thought it was just a piece of glass, but then it looked metallic. He took a step towards it and was surprised to see that it was a coin, a silver coin.

Illya picked it up, brushing it off... realizing it was a single ruble coin with the image of the Tsar Nicholas and the date 1896 and he knew exactly what it was. This coin belonged to his grandfather...his Babushka called it her husband's lucky coin, and it was all that she had left that had been his. This coin was the one bit of money that his grandmother refused to part with that day when he and his mother and brothers left to go to the Yevbaz Bazaar to try to buy food.

The coin was anything but lucky he told himself, then simply shoved it in his pocket. Then he heard it, footsteps coming towards him and he reached inside his jacket, putting his hand on his weapon in anticipation.

"Khto vy mister ? Vy tut ne mistse _who are you mister? You do not belong here," an older woman spoke to him in Ukranian. Her hair was tied up in a green kerchief and she wore a black dress and a short woolen jacket of the same color.

He found himself stammering his answer. "I was looking for a house that used to stand here."

"Yes this was the home of Madame Kuryakina, her son and his family family... my husband knew them, they are all dead." She clicked her tongue, then spoke again, " So many people from that time died. My husband's mother used to live just up the road, he told me she was the friend of the Grandmother."

Illya was shocked, as that could only have been Mrs. Greshenkov.

"Pardon me, what is your name?"

"Oh, I am sorry for being rude, but one has to be so careful these days. I am Agnessa Greshenkov."

Illya couldn't believe it. Yet he remembered the last time he saw the woman who would have been her mother-in-law.

_It had taken him nearly three hours to cover the distance to the neighbor's house as he had gone in search of his Baba, avoiding the patrols that appeared along the road. He kept watch for any sign of his grandmother, but there was none. He knew somehow deep in his heart that his Babushka was dead._

_When he finally arrived at the neighbor's house, he was wary, checking his surroundings and called out her name. "Mrs. Greshenkov...it is I, Illya...Illya Kuryakin" Receiving no answer, he walked in and searched the house looking for her until he saw the woman sitting alone at the table in her kitchen._

_"Mrs Greshenkov?" he spoke again, looking at the woman, when realized her eyes were a blank, in a fixed lifeless stare. The woman was dead...he had seen enough of death already in his young life to recognize it. He stepped closer to her; reaching up tenderly, and closing the woman's cold eyes with his hand. She had not been shot or wounded, she just simply died._

_He searched for and found food to take home, enough to be a feast for he and his sister. Yet he was so hungry when he discovered a pot of cold soup on the stove, he grabbed a cup dipping it into it and ate greedily. _

_He noticed that Mrs. Greshchenkov had her small tie- purse on the table, one Illya had often seen her open to give him a coin for helping her from time to time. He picked it up then pulled it open, emptying the contents onto the table. Out spilled rubles, Kopeks, several rose-gold rings and a silver brooch...all the things of value she possessed._

_Illya put the money and jewelry back into the pouch, then stuffed it into his coat pocket. Suddenly feeling guilty... knowing he was stealing from the dead...though taking the food had not given him that feeling. "But no matter" he reminded himself, it was no longer of no use to her and might serve to keep his and his sister alive a bit longer if they could find food to purchase._

_Illya turned to Mrs. Greshchenkov as he left the kitchen "Forgive me.." he whispered, then crept out the door, heading back home._

"Are you alright Mister, you seem upset?" Agnessa said.

"I am sorry I was remembering Mrs. Greshenkov and how she died."

"My God _you_ know? You must come meet my husband!" She clasped her hands together He has always been troubled as he never knew what happened to his mother. When he returned home after Kyiv had been liberated, their home had been destroyed and there was no one left to tell him the story. Are you a Kuryakin?"

"Umm, no my name is Kiril Nickovich, Kiril Nickovich Andropov." Having to to say that left a bitter taste in Illya's mouth." And I am sorry, I cannot go see your husband, my time here in Kyiv is too brief and I have much to do."

"Tell me then Kiril Nickovich, tell me how she died so I can tell my husband?"

Illya paused a moment...the feelings of guilt rising in his throat.

"She died a natural death, sitting at her kitchen table. I...we, one of the Kuryakins and I found her there. She was unhurt. She never fell victim in life to the violence of the Nazis, though the house was burned by them later that day as was this dacha. Did you know any of them, the Kuryakins?"

"No, but my husband told me about the family. He was friendly with the father Nickolaí and the mother was Tanya. They had five children, and of course the Grandmother lived here as well. So sad, all gone. But as long as one person remembers them they will continue to live, not in the physical world...but in our hearts," she whispered cautiously, "and in heaven."

Illya offered his hand to the woman. "Thank you, that is a good way of looking at it." He looked one last time at the remnants of his home.

"Good bye little sister, you will never be forgotten... rest now. I love you." He barely whispered so Agnessa couldn't hear him. Then he turned and left as he headed back to his car to drive to his next stop.

.

* ref "Beginnings"


	20. Chapter 20

IIllya drove away trying ease the shaking that had nearly overcome him.

He looked out to the faraway forest of Bykivnia, knowing that he could not go there in search of the old camp where his Papa and brother Dimitry were killed in the Nazi raid, along with his Uncle Vanya.

Somewhere in those woods, the body of his cousin Anastasiya lay in a mass grave. He would never be able to find these places in the short time he had. For a moment he pulled the car over, and stepped out again. He stretched out his back as he had grown stiff from the long hours the had spent in so many cars, the cramped Trabant had not helped matters, though the Syrena had more room, he was just aching from his near continuous driving, for a moment he wished that he could have taken that Mercedes that Popyrin had been driving.

_That _would have been comfortable. Then it suddenly dawned upon him that the Trabant he had been given back in East Berlin was probably deliberate, and more than likely arranged by Popyrin, it would have been more easy for him to have been followed in such a slow-moving and uncomfortable little car.

Illya turned his attention elsewhere as he stared out towards the forest trying to picture the faces of his family members. Yet he became agitated that he could not. He took a long calming breath then spoke, directing his words to the mass of trees that seemed so far away.

"Papa, Dmitriĭ , Dyadya Vanya ... Anastasiya. YA lyublyu vas vsekh . Mne zhalʹ, chto ya ne s vami. YA nadyeyusʹ, chto vy vmeste. Do svidaniya_Papa, Dimitry, Uncle Vanya, Anastasiya. I am sorry I am not with you. I hope you are together...I am sorry I cannot come find you.

I need to say good bye to you all, rest now. You will never be forgotten. I promise that... I love you all." He bowed his head for a moment.

This time he did not cry, and simply got back into the car as he headed for Pobeda Avenue...the place where is mother and his brothers Sasha and Misha were murdered.

Once he arrived, he pulled the car up along the curbside then got out.

Pobeda had not changed much, there were a few new buildings but the street essentially looked the same. It was a road that many would take to the Yevbaz...the Jewish Bazaar, which he guessed no longer existed. He remembered that day clearly as the road was filled with people heading into the city. After the occupation the bazaars were the only place where people could buy or exchange their things for food, but only popped up when there were goods to sell.

People could only go on foot as the trams had ceased to operate as much of the city lie in ruins, and only the Germans had cars.

_His mother, twin brothers and he had started out on their journey, meeting and joining many others along the road with the same goal, finding food. He helped to push the carriage and kept his brothers amused, soothing them when they cried. And helped his mother feed them when they stopped along the roadside. There was little left but cold porridge now to give them. Once done eating, they began to walk again._

_It was then that the Germans suddenly appeared, pulling up in their trucks. They grabbed people from the terrified crowds at random ordering them onto the transports at gunpoint._

_His mother grabbed his brothers from the carriage, holding one in each arm, and ordered him to get behind her. He remembered hearing the Nazis voices barking their orders over the frightened cries of the people around them._

_Suddenly a soldier reached into the crowd grabbing Sasha and pulling him from Mama's arm. She screamed as the soldier began tossing his brother up into the air...catching him then tossing him again and again until Sasha began to cry._

_Mama sobbed, begging the soldier to stop and then another soldier grabbed her, pushing her and Misha to the ground. _

_He took a step forward to help but she flashed him a look, telling him to run, then heard her scream as Sasha was tossed again into the air. The soldier drew his side-arm shooting him as he dropped. Then he shot Mama and then did the same to Misha, throwing him up in the air then shooting him._

_It had all happened so fast and Illya remembered being frozen in horror, then he turned and ran as his mother had told him to do, disappearing into the mass of people huddling in terror as more of the soldiers began to shoot into the crowd. He could not understanding why they did not run? The people just stood there. _

_He had slipped out of sight easily since he was so small and made his way homeward in the darkness back to the dacha and to loving the arms of his Babushka._

"Mama...Mamouchka. It is your Illya, I am here. I love you Mama. "Illya whispered again, "Sasha, Misha be good for Mama...I love you both. You can rest now. I am alright...Mama I have children of my own now. They are so beautiful. I wish you could see them. I have to say good bye now but I will never forget you...be at rest." He bowed his head for a moment then got back in the car; there was one last place for him to visit. He looked at his watch, noting that he had another hour before it would be time to make his drop, then put the car in gear heading to the place that haunted his dreams more than anything else.

Illya drove to the northwest of the city to the neighborhood called Syrets, that was now a suburb of the city. He was amazed that all traces of the place of his nightmares were gone and in it's place stood a residential development. There was no sign that the concentration camp had ever been there.

He walked with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his woolen coat, heading to the the nearby ravine, Babi Yar. It was still there, but had clearly been filled in, once it was enormous almost majestic and was so wide that one person could not hear another shouting to the other side.

After the Nazis attacked the Soviet Union, they pushed east. By September 19, the day of his birthday they had reached Kyiv. It was a confusing time for all, as a large portion of the population had family either in the Red Army or had evacuated into the interior of the Soviet Union, many of Kyiv's people welcomed the German Army's takeover of their city, believeing the Germans would free them from Stalin's oppressive regime. But in only days, they would see the true face of the invaders.

It was here at Babi Yar that the Nazis shot the Jews and so many others. It was here where they buried the dead, the victims of their murderous insanity. The terrible odors, the smell of death and the noxious smoke suddenly came back to him, making him feel light headed.

Beneath him in the ravine was buried a mass of bodies covered in blood...the Germans tried to cover up their sins by exhumating the dead and making the last of the prisoners in the camp burn the evidence as the Red Army marched towards the city.

Down there lay the nearly the entire Jewish population of Kyiv, citizens who resisted, people who outlived their usefulness to the Nazi war machine. Gypsies, the young, old, and the infirmed...the countless people who were brought in day after day by train to be killed by the Einsatzgruppen in their mobile gas vans or shot a the edge of the ravine.

His Babushka was probably there in that ravine, though he would never know for sure but his friend Irina was there, having been taken off to the vans to die when it was discovered she was pregnant after having been raped by that animal Karl Voelker. Illya took satisfaction knowing that he'd died at the hands of all people, Angelique La Chien.*

Vasily...that name rang out to him, Vasily the bully, who was a traitor to his people and offered Irina to Voelker for what... a loaf of bread? No doubt Vasily was here and Illya found himself wanting to spit on the ground. But he wouldn't despoil this sacred place. Perhaps he thought Vasily's body just rotted in the camp as the Germans killed the last of the inmates before they retreated. Like so many others, Vasily had no doubt outlived his usefulness. Yes, that at least was a reassuring thought.

He remembered word for word one of the notices that the Germans had posted in the city after the bombings on Khreschatyk ceased, and had found it among the rubble when he was trying to find a safe place to hide in the ruins of the city. It was tattered and torn, but still readable, and the words to this day were burned into his memory.

_All Jews living in the city of Kiev and its vicinity are to report by 8 o'clock on the morning of Monday, September 29th, 1941, at the corner of Melnikovsky and Dokhturov Streets, near the cemetery. They are to take with them documents, money, valuables, as well as warm clothes, underwear, etc. Any Jew not carrying out this instruction and who is found elsewhere will be shot. Any civilian entering flats evacuated by Jews and stealing property will be shot._

Most people in town including the Jews, thought this notice meant deportation. They were wrong as they lined up in fear, being made to walk through the Jewish cemetery nearby to Babi Yar and when hearing the machine gun fire in the distance, they knew it was too late. Buried there with them were countless victims brought in on trains like cattle, Soviet solders, Roma and Sinti gypsies and other innocents like the bespriorzi**_ **the children who like he, were street orphans.

Illya drove away those terrible thoughts, concentrating only on his Babushka and Irina. "I am here, it is Illya. Baba, Irina I lived. I am sorry you died. I will remember you, I promise. You will still live through my memory. I am married Baba, and have babies of my own... I love you, I love you both. I came to say good bye...I am sorry I did not come back to do it until now. Please rest now."

He had no tears either for his grandmother and friend, only Katiya received them. And now he was done, he had finally been able to say a real good bye to his family. Doing this had truly freed him from his past and his terrible feelings about it, he supposed when he got back to New York that it would be a good idea to discuss this with Dr. Mansur. Though some of the weight that he bore had been lifted once he had shared his past with Napoleon, now the rest of that burden was truly gone.

He let out a long sigh, then looked at his watch. It was time, time to get back to work and complete his assignment. Illya looked one last time at the ravine, noting there was nothing telling the world what had happened here, no plaque, no memorial. "I will remember you all," he whispered his promise.

Illya Kuryakin shook himself free of his emotions, focusing on the the drop that he needed to make. He headed back into the city, to the proscribed meeting place, near the Andriyivskyy descent. a historic descent connecting Kyiv's Upper Town neighborhood and the historically commercial Podil neighborhood. , the road was constructed of laid cobblestone and wound down steeply around the Zamkova Hora hill, ending near the Kontraktova Square in the Podil and was known since the Kievan Rus' times as an important part of the Podil merchant neighborhood. The square lay in between the Andriyivskyy Descent, Sahaidachny, Pokrivska, Florivska, Prytisko-Mykilska, Kostiantynivska, Mezhyhirska, Spaska, Skovorody and Ilynska streets.

And ten different streets surrounding it, to someone not familiar with Kyiv, getting around the Podil area could be quite confusing with its narrow winding roads, the area managed to survive some of the destruction from the war, at least giving him some familiar landmarks.

It only took two hours of driving after heading northeast on Kamenyarov Street toward Jasna Street, the route again was convoluted, taking him on six more turns before reaching Bessarabska Square located at the Southwest end of Khreshchatyk, the main thoroughfare of Kyiv. It was located in the city's Shevchenko Raion district at the busy intersection of Khreshchatyk, Chervonoarmiiska Street, and the Andriyivskyy Descent streets.

There on its outskirts he parked the car, putting on his wool coat and a sable ushanka he had bought for a good price because it was after all Spring, though it did not feel like it and he slowly walked to the statue of Lenin that stood outside the Besarabsky Market. The bronze statue had been erected in the fifties, showing the leader standing with his hands clasped behind his back, and his eyes gazing out to the horizon. It stood on a tall circular base atop a platform, looming over any passersby below. This was where he was to make the drop.

Illya looked at his watch, realizing he was a bit early, as he adjusted the strap of the dark leather pouch slung over his shoulder. He made no attempt to open it, though it would have been easy for him. If he was at all suspect then they would not have given him any documents of significance, and at the moment it was not his mission and would only be a distraction. He rationalized not touching for his own protection. He looked at his watch again...the contact should arrive soon or perhaps he was already here?

He walked over to a small newsstand selling copies of the newspaper Известия_ Izvestia then strolled back towards the statue, not really reading the paper, but hiding behind it as he watched for anyone in the square who looked suspicious.

A tall, slender woman with long wavy brown hair, wearing a very stylish outfit and looking more Parisian than Soviet as she sauntered towards him. Wrapped around her shoulders was a deep burgundy cape and a sable headband covering her ears.

"Vzymku Kolymar yak ochikuyetʹsya, bude m'yakym u tsʹomu rotsi_The winters of Kolymar are expected to be mild this year," she spoke the code but in Ukranian.

"Ale ne dlya tykh, khto zhyve i vmyraye tam_But not for those who are living and dying there." he responded also speaking Ukranian.

"Komrade Andropov I presume,"

"A vy_and you are?"

"Mene zvutʹ Daryna."

"Hmmm, Daryna, that means _Queen _and you most certainly are...so all the aristocracy has not left us perhaps?" His thoughts momentarily jumped to his own surreptitious but meaningless title of Count.

Yet, he flirted with her, knowing that Kiril treated mostly prostitutes like dirt, but a but a beautiful woman was another story. He smiled at her, gazing into her eyes as he handed her the pouch with the copy of the Известия wrapped around it.

Her eyes looked him up and down, and it was quite obvious from the look in them that she was attracted to him. "You are the handsome one, " she finally purred to him.

"Maybe I could visit you sometime and treat you like the _Queen_ that you are." He responded, flirtatiously.

"I have an apartment nearby, perhaps now?" She smiled seductively at him.

Illya reached out, running his finger gently along the length of her face, down along her neck, then stopped just where her cleavage peeked out from beneath her blouse. He stared a bit lecherously at her breasts as he knew Kiril would have done.

"Would that I had the time now, but with someone like you I would not rush. I would take my time as I make love to you, so slowly that you would _beg_ me for more and _that_ I could give you, for a long... very long time. He touched his finger then to her lips, and she kissed the tip of it, then slipped it into her mouth and sucked on it."

He couldn't help but feel momentarily aroused by her act, but then removed his finger from her mouth.

"Mozhlyvo, meni slid nazyvaty vas spokusnytsi_perhaps I should call you _temptress_? But I must go, as I am expected in Moskva, and it is good not to make the Kremlin wait."

"Another time then perhaps?" She sighed, then turned to leave.

"What is your last name?" Illya asked quietly, continuing the charade.

"Apanaschenkov, " she said, blowing him a kiss, then she disappeared among the last of the crowds of shoppers exiting the marketplace. The sun was beginning to set, and soon the Besarabsky would be closed down for the night.

Illya let out a long sigh of dismay. " Svyatoe derʹmo_holy shit." he mumbled to himself, " If I was not a married man, I would have loved to have slipped into that..." He shook his head, clearing it of all thoughts of desire, walking towards the Andriyivskyy Descent. "Bog prostit menya za takie mysli._God forgive me for such thoughts."

As he walked up along the cobbled street of the the descent, heading towards the top of the of Starokyivskaya Hill to St. Andrews Church where it rose above the Podil neighborhood, it's slopes looking down to the Dneiper river. It was the last place he had promised himself to visit, to make his final farewells to his family.

There were legends that his Babushka had told him about the Andriyivskyy Descent, one said that Andrew the Apostle visited the uninhabited mountains where what was now the Descent, where he put up a cross atop of the hill where the it began and prophesied a foundation of a great Christian city. And until the Soviet Union over the Ukraine, it had been a Christian city with many churches.

The other legend told of a sea where the Dnieper River now flowed. When Saint Andrew came to Kiev and erected a cross on the place where the Saint Andrew's Church now stands, the sea went away. The only part that remained of the sea was under the mountain on which Kiev sits today. When the church was built there in the 18th century, a spring opened under the alter. Babushka told him the church has no bells, because, according to the legend, when the first bell strikes, the water would revive again and flood the left bank of Kyiv.

When he reached the the summit, the last light of sunset hit the five gold and green domes, high atop their spires, making the colors flash brightly for just a few minutes.

This had still been a church before the war, and before such places were shut down for services by the Soviet government, having banned religious worship and gatherings. Though there were still a brave few who would not give up going to the church, and would sneak here to pray, even tough there were no formal services.

Illya stepped up onto the cast iron steps leading up to St. Andrews then as darkness took over, the white walls of the baroque church were like a beacon to him as he approached it.

The doors were still open, and he stepped inside. It was dim, with only candles lighting up the darkness as he stared up at the at the golden-red iconostasis that rose above the altar. It was a wooden partition with tiers of painted icons, separating the altar from the rest of the church rising high into the air and beside it was the white and gold Baroque style pulpit that was so unusual for an Eastern Orthodox Church. But there were still no services here, as now the church was to being converted into a museum.

He stopped for a moment, focusing on the memories that suddenly filled him, closing his eyes; he like a little boy again with his Mother and Grandmother bringing him here for services. He would watch all the _páni _as they bowed, praying before the icons that lined the interior.

Illya Kuryakin looked around, envisioning the images of his family praying, and then after making sure there was no one else there...he blessed himself in the Orthodox fashion just as his Mamouchka and Babushka had taught him in this very church, then he clasped his hands together in front of himself just as he did when he was little...bowing his head and he prayed for the departed members of his family and his friend Irina, reciting the Eastern Orthodox prayer for the dead.

"_Vladyko, Gospodi Bozhe nash , Kotoryĭ v Svoyeĭ mudrosti _oh_ _Master, Lord our God, Who in Thy wisdom hast created man, and didst honor him with Thy Divine image, and place in him the spirit of life, and lead him into this world, bestowing on him the hope of resurrection and life everlasting; and after he had violated Thy commandments, Thou O Gracious lover of mankind, didst descend to the earth that Thou migihtest renew again the creation of Thy hands. _

_Therefore we pray Thee, O All-Holy Master give rest to the souls of Thy servants, Nicholaí, Tanya, Marina, Dimitry, Alexander, Michail, Katiya, Ivan, Anastasiya and Irina and all those who suffered and died at the hands of evil, let them be in a place of brightness, a place of green pasture, a place of repose, and, in that have sinned in word, or deed or thought forgive them: For Thou art a good God and lovest mankind and unto Thee do we ascribe Glory, together with Thy Father, Who is from everlasting and Thine All-Holy and good, and ever giving Spirit, now, and ever, and unto ages of ages. Amen."_

Illya blessed himself again, then looked up one last time at the images of the icons inlaid into the iconostasis above him, as he would most likely never see them again.

He took a moment to focus in on the image of St. Andrew, reaching to his chest where the medal to the Saint normally hung, and he asked for his intercession. "Please watch over my wife and children, and ask that I may return safely to them, but if it is God's will that I do not, then I accept it."Then lllya said a brief prayer, asking God to forgive his many transgressions, though he doubted his soul would make it to heaven because of all the things he'd done in his life.

Walking to the back of the church to leave, he turned one last time to look…swearing for a second that he saw the ghosts of his family standing there in the candle light, smiling at him. It was an Orthodox belief that the soul remained on earth for forty days, after that the family holds a second gathering to bid farewell as the soul departs for heaven.

He never had the luxury of a funeral for his family members, but he felt that their souls were at rest now and could do exactly that...depart for heaven. They were at peace as was he.

"Proshchalʹnyĭ_farewell," he said lovingly, then left the church, heading back down the the dark path, with the snow he had suspected was in the air, now beginning to flurry walked the 720 meter descent, then found himself in front of a small taverna. Feeling the chill from the night air and the falling snow, he opened the door to enter, letting a gust of cold air come in with him.

A few of the patrons looked up, then guarded their glances against the stranger. He had a look about him to them; in their minds he could be KGB, in spite of that he heard someone with the balls to mumble, "Zakryt' porklyatuyu dver'_close the damn door!"

Illya stepped up the he bar, removing his fur hat from his head, unbuttoning his coat, but not removing it.

"Vy novichok zdes' ne tak li_you are new here are you not?" asked the barkeep.

"Nyet, ne sovsem_no, not really. I just have not been here in a very long time, since I was a child."

The man behind the bar stepped back, looking at him for a minute as if he were trying to remember the man's face. "Yes I can hear that now, you have a Kyiv accent. Judging by your age that would have put you here during the Great Patriotic War."

"You are a good judge of age."

"Some things you just learn to pick up. There are many things that I see and hear while serving men their drink. Your family...?" He asked as he poured the man a vodka.

"Are all gone, they died." He finished the sentence for him, surprising himself at his candor with a stranger.

"Sadly as are many from that time, the city was nearly wiped out."

Illya held up the worn ruble with the bearded profile of Czar Nicholas II on the obverse, on the reverse was the crowned double eagle with the shieid and chain on the breast, holding the sceptre and imperial orb, below that was the date 1896.

The barkeep could see a sadness in the man's bright blue eyes as he stared at the coin.

"This is all I have left of my family; this coin belonged to my Grandfather," Illya said." Not much of a legacy. I was told it was his lucky coin, not lucky for him I suppose, but lucky that it lay for so long, as I found it in the ruins of my Grandmother's dacha today. It was all that my Babushka had left that was his. The dacha was destroyed, but this has been there since 1943 so it has lain undisturbed for twenty five years." his voice faded for a moment, "as have the remains of my baby sister."

He swallowed his glass of vodka, listening as the musicians played; two accordions, a mandolin and a balalaika. It was a melody that cried out to his soul, his melancholy Russian spirit. The rhythm was that of seven-eleven, gypsy-like haunting; calling to mind the memories of the gypsy camp of his Uncle Vanya. He watched and listened as the musicians lost themselves in the melody. It drew him into his past again like a spectral hand reaching out, calling to him to come home again this one last time.

The small smoke-filled tavern sold only State approved liquor and modest meals, and was filled with men huddling together at the rough-hewn tables, speaking in whispers; workers dressed in poor clothing. Their eyes empty as were their lives. The vodka they drank served but to deaden their spirits against the control over their mundane existence; the Russian winters served to numb their corporeal bodies.

The U.S.S.R. had just adopted a new five day work week, and what did workers do with that extra day, but spend it drinking. The government did not want to admit it; but alcoholism was a major problem; it decreased worker productivity. If they cold not buy their vodka, they made it in illegal stills.

He was poured another drink." Ty v poryadki tovarishcha_you alright komrade?"

Illya nodded quietly, lost in his thoughts.

"Kto vy_who are you? Maybe I knew your family or perhaps someone here did?"

"Nikto. Ya Nikto_no one. I am no one. "He swallowed his vodka, then turned his attention back to the music.

A young man sitting at a worn piano joined in as did an old man on violin; picking up the tempo. One of the men at the tables pulled out a polished brass darbuka, a Turkish hand-drum.

He tossed the the ruble to the man behind the bar to pay for the drinks, but the man refused to take the old coin.

"Nyet, vy dolzhny imet' eto_no, you should keep it. We all lost much back then, better you should have something to hold on to, this one little thing is a link to your past."

The barman held up the coin between his fingers, looking at at for a moment. "This is more than I had left after the war. Keep it as a reminder, let it bring to mind your family, let your memories of them survive as this coin has all these, years waiting for you to come back to claim it. It was here for you, treasure it as it is a small miracle that it remained there for you to find."

Illya took the coin back from the man, holding it tightly in his hand. "Spacibo."

"What was your family's name?"

"It was Kuryakin." he said, breaking his cover, yet feeling something that made him know he could trust this man.

"Kuryakin" repeated the man, as if committing it to memory," as long as one person remembers that name, they will live."

"That was the same thing Agnessa Greshenkov has said when he her met at the ruins of the dacha," he thought, " perhaps it was true?" He was not a sentimental man, but the coin suddenly felt important to him after all.

"Your name?" Illya asked.

"It is Rabinovich, Elijah Rabinovich. I was named for my father. We never knew what happened to him, probably he is in the Babi Yar with the rest of my people."

Illya smiled; remembering the man's father; meeting him and learning from him in the partisan camp in Bykivnia forest. He too was named for the man; but he said nothing to the barkeep.*

He took one last around the place, at the people...his people. The voices, the music the scent of food cooking. He might not see this again for a long time, if he ever returned at all. Just for a brief moment, he allowed himself to savor it as he gripped that coin. Then paid for his drinks with other coins he had in his trouser pocket.

Illya Kuryakin bundled his coat about him, putting his sable ushanka on his head as he walked out into the chilly night. A light snow drifted haphazardly across the cobblestone street as he crossed it; disappearing from beneath the light of a lone street lamp on the Andriyivskyy uzviz, and soon to return on his journey to Moskva, then on to his ultimate goal of the closed city of Gorky.

He had to focus and not let his memories distract him from completing this dangerous assignment. But the coin weighed heavily in his hand; he shoved it in his coat pocket to ward off the cold as he headed back to where he parked the Syrena, then drove back to the hotel where he had rented his room to spend one last night _home_.

.

* ref. "Beginnings" ** ref "The Gambit Affair"


	21. Chapter 21

Illya woke early the next morning feeling refreshed and surprisingly serene. He had made his peace, having truly said good bye at last to his family, and had resigned himself to God's will by accepting if it was his fate to die on this mission.

It was an adjustment in his usual attitude that he had displayed for so many years, being the fatalistic Russian. Every time he had stepped out U.N.C.L.E.'s door with Napoleon, he expected to die. He had lost track of how many times he had uttered the words, _I think I am going to die_, to his partner.

Dying wasn't a possibility, to him it was a given. And every time he lived he was surprised. But now there was difference, the the possibility of death was still there, but now he accepted with a feeling of reverence rather than one of impending doom.

When Elliott and then the children came into what he had always felt was his ill-fated existence, he dared to hope. He never wanted to die, his survival instincts would not permit that, though he always prepared himself for the worst scenario as it just made things easier, but now his feelings had changed had he had renewed his dialogue with his maker and because of that his feelings about dying seemed less fatalistic.

He couldn't quite explain the difference, but supposed that if death came, then this time he knew he'd be in God's hands and would see his family again, as opposed to his old view of just ceasing to exist. That determinist way of thinking was gone as now he felt comforted by his new feelings about death and that he supposed was a good thing.

Illya bathed, shaved and then put the damnable contact lenses in with a hiss, as his eyes were still burning terribly. Once ready, he went out and found another café and ate a quick but hearty breakfast, wanting to get an early start.

Dreading the thought of climbing back into the car; he stood outside it, spreading his precious map on the bonnet of the car, deciding it would be best to at least stop once en route to Moskva to rest both his back and his eyes, and for a moment chuckled to himself, thinking of his sore zhopa as well. He brought his attention back to the map, running his finger along the route he would need to take, then noted that Bryansk would be the best place to rest, though it was nearly seven hours away.

"It is what it is," he told himself, as he lowered himself back into the car, sitting on his folded coat for a little seat padding, then headed southwest on Khreshchatyk Street toward Proreznaya, then to Prorіzna, and continuing onto the Bessarabian Square, to Red Army Street and Chervonoarmіyska...seeing these winding streets one last time was another sort of farewell.

He didn't dwell on the fact that he was leaving his childhood home, the fact that the city looked so different help him distance himself from that idea and at the moment that helped him to focus on the task at hand.

The were a number of more convoluted turns again until he left Kyiv, finally exiting onto E101 and then off to other motorways. This journey would take him just over eleven hours, but with the stop in Bryansk he estimated he would arrive in Moskva in fifteen hours. He had an appointment to keep not just with his C.I.A. contact but at KGB headquarters as well and had to push himself to make it, there was no being late when the Kremlin was involved, in that he was not joking to the courier he had met the day before.

He sighed, as the pain in his lower back had proven to him that he was pushing himself too much. Seven hours of hell until he reached his next stop, still 379 kilometers southwest of Moscow."Oĭ vyeĭ," he groaned.

After his long ride,the Syrena rumbled into Bryansk on time, with Illya having made only one stop to relieve himself, but after driving that many hours, the pain in his lower back was now as unbearable as that in his eyes.

"Time to give it a rest Kiril." Illya suddenly realized what he had called himself and was not liking it at all. "Do not lose yourself in this role _durak," _he called himself a fool as chastised himself.

Bryansk city was an industrial center and an important railway junction between the Moskva, Kyiv, Smolensk, Oryol, Vyazma lines. It also ran through the "Druzhba" oil pipeline as well as an international airport. It had made better recovery from the war than other towns.

It had a large number of Soviet partisans who fought bravely during the war, but it's claim to fame was it's association with Mikhail Kalashnikov who at the time was a Senior Sergeant tank commander. He was wounded at the Battle of Brody but made it to a hospital on foot, where he received medical attention. While recovering from his injuries, Kalashnikov started experiencing flashbacks of the raid and became obsessed with creating a submachine gun that would drive the Germans from his homeland. This battle served as the catalyst for the invention of the AK47 as well a subsequent improved versions of it.

"Avtomat Kalashnikov Modernizirovanniy" - Automatic Kalashnikov Modernized AKM, Illya recited, having remembered when the weapon first appeared in 1963, it was was lighter than the AK47's. Then from that weapon, Kalishnikov developed a squad automatic weapon variant, the _Ruchnoi pulemyot Kalashnikova_ - Kalashnikov light machine gun and the _Pulemyot Kalashnikova_ machine gun. The man was an armaments genius in Kuryakin's estimation.

The city was large enough that he found a rooming house and a place to eat without difficulty off Boulevard Shorsa, then after a few hours of cat napping, he poured himself back into the car for the last leg of his journey.

Moskva was a welcome sight as he arrived at the anticipated time, with the sights and sounds of the city coming back to him, even though his last time there was just before he left to join U.N.C.L.E. was so long ago. As he drove through the city, he looked around at the sterility and drabness of the Soviet architecture, with its numerous statuary depicting Communist functionaries and military figures. Yet there was still much beauty there, as the city suffered minimal damage during the Great Patriotic War, the old mixed in with the new. This was his Russia and as troubled as it was, it made him smile seeing Moskva again.

He stepped out of the Syrena, throwing his duffle over his shoulder, after he parked the car in front of an apartment building, it's Georgian-style architecture slightly run down, but intact. This was where Kiril Andropov lived. There was a woman in the lobby sweeping the floor as he walked inside, but as soon as she saw him her eyes were filled with a look of fear.

She backed away, reaching for the handle of a nearby door while not taking his eyes off of him. Illya laughed at her, assuming his brothers demeanor, augmenting her fear of him as she opened the door, slipping inside. He heard the bolt click as she locked it. It was obvious that she'd had a run in with his brother, and only wondered what Kiril could have possibly done to make her so afraid.

He walked up to the second floor, taking a key from his wallet that had been among Kiril's possessions; if it didn't work it would be no problem for him to pick the lock.

Luckily the key was the right one, and Illya slipped in quietly, only to find himself with the cold metal of a pistol barrel shoved against his cheekbone.

But just as suddenly, it was withdrawn. "O vremeni vy poluchili vash grebanyĭ zad zdesʹ_about time you got your fucking ass here."

He was grabbed in a bear hug by a thin blond man. "Kiril my _love_ you look a bit different, your ordeal has taken its toll on you."

Then next thing he knew his face was being pulled into a passionate kiss.

Instinctively Illya pushed himself away. Strangely, the man's stature, build and hair, resembled that of Illya Kuryakin. "This was not good," he thought. It was obvious that Kiril was involved with the man, though homosexuality was highly frowned upon in the Soviet Union but with a man that resembled the brother that he hated so much. Kiril had one twisted mind.

Suddenly Andropov's abuse of women made more sense, telling him that Kiril Andropov was even more troubled that he suspected. From Tolya's demeanor, it seemed that he was not subjected to the abuses that Kiril inflicted upon his sexual partners of the feminine persuasion.

"O vremeni vy poluchili vash grebanyĭ zad zdesʹ_I thought you were dead, and after two months you push me aside? You have no idea how I have longed for you...my beautiful Kira." He reached out, touching his hand to Illya's auburn hair.

"Stoi," he responded, pushing the hand away.

"Andropov you really are a son of a bitch sometimes. How can you be so cruel to me, I thought I had lost you. Am I not still your Tolya? " He ran his finger along Illya's face, then running it across his lips. " My heart leaped for joy when I heard you were alive and coming home. Please make love to me? From the moment I heard you lived, I have longed to feel you..."

Tolya tried pulling Illya's coat off, but his hands were again driven away.

"Nyet Tolya, not now. I must report to the Kremlin...I have to clean myself up."

"Kira, your voice sounds different? What did those Americanskii bastards do to you?" He tried hugging Illya again.

"Nyet!" Illya barked at him. Razve vy ne ponimaeteznachenie slova nyet_Do you not understand the meaning of the word no?" Illya snapped at him. Then he reached out, cupping Tolyas chin in his hand. "I am sorry. It has all been very difficult for me, you must give me some time." He tried softening his voice, sounding more tender.

"Please Kira, do not make me wait?" Tolya leaned in trying to kiss him again, but Illya turned his face away.

"Fine, be that way Kiril Nicovich!" Tolya threw a melodramatic fit. "I will be at my apartement when you are ready to be with me!" He threw on his coat with a flourish then stormed out the door, slamming it in a huff.

Illya locked the door behind him, then realizing that would do no good as Tolya surely had a key; he grabbed a chair, shoving it beneath the door knob to jam it closed, then leaned his forehead against the door, letting out a long stress-filled sigh. Kirl was a homosexual? Or to be more precise, bi-sexual. That was an unexpected realization that hit him hard. Kiril took a great risk, living that sort of life style in the Soviet Union, if discovered anyone would be automatically sent to a gulag.

Illya had no time to dwell on this as he stripped from his clothes, stepping into the small bathroom shower. His brother's apartment was what they called an efficiency in America, with the bed and cooking facilities together in a single room, but the private bathroom made it luxurious compared to most state apartments that had only communal bathrooms on each floor.

He stiffened as the cold water hit his skin, noting some things still hadn't changed in Moskva." Once he dried himself with the coarse towel, he wrapped it around his waist, then began rifling through Kiril's dresser for some clothing and was disgusted when he found pornographic photographs of both men and women...and children. Kiril with children...that horrified him.

His guilt over having killed his brother was completely gone when he saw what kind of man he truly was...no, more like hedonistic animal. With him there were no boundaries of decency, no sense of right or wrong. He could accept the bisexuality, but being a pedophile? Illya threw the photos back into the drawer in disgust, then continued his search.

There were a few shirts and suits hanging in the closet, and Illya chose the best. A grey shirt, suit and a silver-grey tie to wear for his visit to the Kremlin. He slipped his feet into a pair of black leather Italian shoes that Kiril no doubt had picked up on the black market, or perhaps even smuggled in from Italy.

Lastly, he put the contact lenses back in, accustomed to the stinging sensation now and combed back his damp hair, put on his wool coat and and walked out the door, heading towards the the Kremlin.

Fifteen minutes later he entered the walled fortress via The Resurrection Gate, the northern entrance to Red Square, just a few hundred meters from the statue of Marshal Zhukov mounted on his war horse. Though he had seen the statue many times in the past for some reason today, the horse's look seemed shocked to him and embarrassed that it had accidentally trodden on and destroyed someones special heirloom.

Though Illya knew it was trampling one of the Nazi eagles... a common symbol of the fascist Germans and a visual reminder that Zhukov had been appointed the defender of Moscow as the Germans closed in on the city. Then later it was he and his troops who captured Berlin as he was the commander of the Soviet occupation forces in Germany after the war.

Illya gazed out to a sight he thought he would never see again, the bright domes of St Basil's cathedral at the opposite end of Krasnaya ploshchad'_Red Square. Just as it had happened the last day he had seen the church so many years ago, the rays of the sun shone down upon the domes, illuminating an intensifying the blues, reds greens and golds of the the onion domes, and beneath each lay nine separate chapels, with one under the tall central tower unifying the structure into a single whole.*

To Illya it was still as breathtaking as when he had first seen it when he was brought to the orphanage, Moskva school no. 7, and visited the Kremlin for the first time when he was but ten years old. To this day he still thought it the most beautiful structure in all of Krasnaya ploshchad'_Red Square.

The name _red_ square had not come about as a reference to communism, or even to the large amount of red brickwork around the square, instead it was originally a reference to St Basil's. _Krasnaya_ could mean either _beautiful_ or _red_, but it was the term beautiful which was originally applied to the cathedral, but then shifted in meaning and location to become Red Square as Communism took control.

In front of the cathedral was a statue of Kuzma Minin and Dmitry Pozharsky, who drove Polish invaders out of Moscow 200 years before the French under Napoleon Bonaparte came to grief in this same place. This statue once stood in the middle of the square, but the Communist government moved it in front of the cathedral because it was impeding parades. Today there would be no parades, as on May 8th, _May day, _the square here would be filled with people and marching soldiers. Parades would take place in many cities across the Soviet Union...including Gorky.

The large _Glavnyi Universalnyi Magazin_GUM_ department store dominated the eastern side of Red Square and was synonymous with fat cat communists with their political connections and bribery, who enjoyed a life of comfort and luxury above the daily grind of ordinary Russians.

GUM stood for _state universal store_, but its tsarist name of _upper trading rows _was more appropriate, because it did not consist of a single undivided building, but rather three rows of shops, each of which is built on three levels. At the time of the October Revolution there were over a thousand separate shops in this building, with more in the middle trading rows located across Ilyinka Street, directly to the south.

He shook his head, seeing it with different eyes now, knowing the separation of the _classes_ was perfectly illustrated by this so-called State run store. It was so expensive that the average worker could not imagine being able to buy anything there, and would have to continue to suffer waiting on lines in hopes of finding what they needed at some local State run shop.

Illya was exactly on time, as he had been instructed to wait by the Minin-Pozharsky statue to meet his C.I.A contact. After that meeting he was to head to Lubyanskaya ploschad', and the Lubyanka, the location of KGB headquarters. There he expected to be escorted to somewhere near the Palace of Congresses. The thought passed his mind that at that very moment that Soviet leaders were most likely planning an invasion of Czechoslovakia.

A handsome dark haired man wearing a black trench coat was walking directly towards him, and Illya's mouth was surely hanging open as his eyes focused on who it was. There would be no need for codes and passwords with this man.

"Tovarishch," he greeted him with that infectious Solo smile.

"You are my contact?" Illya was in shock.

"Da, ya , izvinite zasyurprizom_Yes I'm, sorry for the surprise."

"I thought you could not speak Russian." Illya challenged."

"I lied," Hannibal Solo whispered, cocking his eyebrows just like his brother.

"I cannot believe this...how?" Illya was still feeling dismay at the identity of his contact."

"Let's say I can move in different circles because of my diplomatic credentials and certain Russian officials like the little gifts I give them while they think they're bilking a stupid American for information, when it is me in fact who is doing the bilking."

"Does your brother know?" Illya whispered.

"No and I have to ask you to keep this our little secret. Napoleon must never know who my real employer is. Our father doesn't even know, and it has to stay that way." Hannibal said." You can do that, can't you...that is, keep your mouth shut?"

That request being put to him not make Illya feel comfortable at all. Though he and Napoleon each had their secrets, they were kept of their own volition and not at the behest of others. Illya was not sure he could make that promise to Hannibal as there was no love lost between the tow of them. Now he knew why his instincts pushed to have him an instant dislike of Hannibal Solo when he first met him in Venice.

But then he asked himself what good it would do revealing this to his partner; coming to the conclusion it could do more harm than good. It was something that needed to be worked out between the two brothers.

"I will make no promises Hannibal, but you need to talk to Napoleon about this when all is said and done. Now let us do what we came here to do, I have an appointment elsewhere to keep."

Hannibal pulled a cigarette case from his breast pocket, offering a smoke to the Russian.

"No thank you I quit."

"That's right, you and my brother are reformers...well do you mind if I...?"

"Go ahead..." he twisted the saying a bit, "it is _not_ a free country." Illya smiled.

Hannibal lit up his cigarette, taking a long drag on it then exhaling the smoke through his nostrils.

"Hmm, Turkish," Illya commented, smelling the distinct odor. He would have been lying if he said he did not like the smell of the blend, as he had smoked most of his adult life. " You speak Russian, smoke our blend of cigarettes, so have you developed a taste for other things Slavic?"

"Unlike my brother, I have developed an affinity to vodka, I don't know how he can drink that bloody scotch."

"Neither do I." Illya smiled genuinely this time.

"So where is your appointment?"

"The Lubyanka."

"Shit, that's a prison. Look I have authorization to pull you from this mission if..."

"Lubyanka is also KGB headquarters, I prefer to look on the bright side and believe I will have only a meeting there. After all I do need to recount the death of Illya Kuryakin to my superiors," Illya smiled. "I have been told that I am to receive a medal as a Hero of the Soviet Union for killing an enemy of the State."

Hannibal dropped his cigarette on the cobblestones, extinguishing it with his foot. "Yeah, right."

"Better pick that up, or you might be arrested for littering on a national treasure, "Illya quipped. " Now give me my instructions, as I must leave."

Hannibal flashed him a dirty look, then bent and picked it up and shoving the butt into his coat pocket.

"Alright, it's your call." He opened his cigarette case again, offering it towards Illya.

"I told you I no longer smoke."

"Take the cigarette on the left, your instructions are on the paper. Just make sure you destroy it when your done."

"Excuse me, I _know _what I am doing." Illya snorted.

"I hope so.

"I have one last question. Why was I not warned that Kiril...likes men?"

"He likes women too, "Hannibal smiled, "well maybe _like_ is too strong a word to use in relation to them. We figured you already knew that he swung both ways. Sorry. You didn't have any problems with his _lover_ did you?"

"Luckily not."

"Look, I want to say... I mean given you're my brother's best friend, I'm sorry I've rubbed you the wrong way. Good luck and get home safe."

The look in Hannibal's dark eyes gave an inkling that was he said was genuine, but that didn't mean that Illya liked Hannibal Solo any better, in spite of his lame apology. He stood there and watched as the younger Solo disappeared into the crowds of people wandering the cobbled stones of Red Square.

* ref "The Last Good bye"


	22. Chapter 22

Illya Kuryakin, in the guise of his deceased brother walked out from Nikolskie gates, the northern exit of the Kremlin, and that location making him smile as they were named for St. Nikolaí and he took it as a good sign. In the 16 th century a part of Astrakhan, a city that lay on the left bank of the Volga River close to where it discharged into the Caspian Seawas attacked by the Tsar Ivan the Terrible, even though the city belonged to the Tatars. He sent his army to put down Tatar's khan and gave his voivode_war leader the icon of _St. Nickolaí,_which brought victory in the battle, and in honor of it, the Nikolskie gates were erected along with the Nikola church.

"Be with me Papa,"he whispered thinking of his father Nickolaí as he headed to his next destination and fingering his grandfather's ruble coin in his pocket. This time he was calm. The nervousness that had been dogging him was now gone as were all the sad memories that had been stirred up by this journey. They were now put into perspective and returned to where he kept them compartmentalized in his head and no longer coloring his task at hand. He _was _ready.

It took him only fifteen minutes by foot to Lubyanskaya ploshchad' and then he stood there with his hands in his coat pockets staring at the incongruous images. To his right across the square stood _Detsky Mir _ Children's World_ department store that was the dream of every child and was the biggest toy store in the Soviet Union.

Parents who had money came there from all over the country looking for rare toys and clothes - and they always found them. Such things were probably not so special to a foreigner, but if you were a Soviet child – you'd do anything to get things from this store.

In the U.S.S.R. children did not have much of a choice, all the toys they saw in shops were mostly produced by the local industry, and tended to be grayish and dull. Anything better had to be bought from the more expensive State stores like Detsky Mir, it was that or take chances getting caught buying something illegal on the streets...even toys.

Illya had dared to buy such a toy years ago, spending one of his last rubles on a marionette... one that reminded him of his childhood, though he took a great risk in buying it. He had dug it out of his belongings last Christmas, amusing his children along with Poly and Luci Solo and after his performance with it, he gave it to Demya for it to be his.*

Moscow was the only place that had all the most advanced toys created in the U.S.S.R. and Detsky Mir had them all. The store did not only sell Soviet toys, as there were also many foreign brands present. Clothes from Czechoslovakia and Finland were being sold without any restrictions.

One could only buy those from private _speculators _that were absolutely illegal. He had dared to buy such a toy years ago spending one of his last rubles on a marionette... one that reminded him of his childhood, and took a great risk in doing that.

Back in his early days with GRU, he didn't fully understand the need of a parent to please their children, as he had bought the toy out his own selfishness and sadness. But now being a father, he could understand what people would risk for their children's happiness.

Needless to say people preferred to buy from official retailers and not to take a chances with the law. But if one could not afford such stores, it meant take a chance getting caught buying something illegally on the streets...even toys.

Illya remembered going to Detsky Mir once on an asinine assignment for a superior at the GRU to pick up then what he thought was a bourgeois doll, a Soviet version of an American toy called _Chatty Cathy,_ a birthday for a spoiled daughter. He had to admit the store was amazing, as there was a clock that chimed every hour, the tiny doors on it opened and let out mechanical figurines that moved just like real and made strange sounds.

He'd never seen anything like it and was fascinated by it. There was also a merry-go-round inside the building riding on it were over-dressed children...little girls with big bows in their hair, wearing dresses with puffy skirts and boys dressed in little sailor suits. All this decadence during the times of Soviet scarcity and deficit, again showing the wide gap between the privileged and the working people.

Across the street from this wondrous place of extravagance was a large statue of Felix Dzerzinsky, the founder of the Secret Police the Cheka, during the Bolshevik revolution. Then Cheka eventually to become the KGB. The statue stood directly in front of _Лубянка,_ the Lubyanka... headquarters of the KGB and the affiliated prison on Lubyanka Square.

It was a large Neo-Baroque building with a facade of yellow brick, noted for its beautiful interior parquet floors and pale green walls. Belying its massiveness, the edifice gave nothing that lay along the lines of a heroic scale as did many Soviet building.. The Baroque details, were lost among endlessly-repeating classicizing style of a palace facade. A clock was centred in the uppermost band at the highest point of the the building as it towered ominously over the square.

KGB headquarters consisted of two buildings with a third drab grey one under construction to the left of the main yellow building... often shown on television; it predated the Revolution and was taken over by the Bolsheviks in 1918 and contained the Lubyanka prison.

The Lubyanka was a place avoided by the Soviet people at all costs, unless you had a loved one who suddenly went missing. If you went there in search of him, your pleas fell on deaf ears. If there was any sort of trial, the family wasn't notified, if someone was executed the family wasn't told until well after the fact. And if their loved one was sent to the gulag, they might get a letter from him, if they were lucky. But some people just _disappeared,_ never to be seen or heard from again.

Like many edifices dedicated to bureaucracy, this one was not beautiful - even less so when Illya considered the number of people who were tortured and murdered by the NKVD and now by the KGB within its walls. His own grandfather could have been held here before he was sent to his death in the Solovki gulag during secret police's countless purges and mass murders within the Russian States.

Illya took his hands out of his pockets and raised his head high, still clenched in his hand was his grandfather's lucky ruble and he held onto it tightly.

This was the big moment where he would find out if his cover story and disguise had truly worked. He would either receive the hero's welcome that Lesnichy had told him he would, or he would be quickly whisked into the prison as they had done nothing but laid a trap for him.

He walked though the door void of all emotions now and ready for what ever would happen as he was unsure of his fate. He approached the main desk and there he showed his identification and was acknowledged immediately by the receptionist.

"Dobro pozhalovatʹ tovarishcha Andropova , vy pravy v ustanovlennye sroki. Yesli vy vypolnite svoego eskorta_Welcome Comrade Andropov, you are right on time. If you will please follow your escort."

The man motioned to a uniformed guard wearing the grey and red uniform of a the Soviet Army. He stepped crisply, coming forward and pointing silently the direction in to which Illya was to move. They walked to the elevator and the button for the third floor was pressed.

Illya restrained himself from reacting, as it was a relief that he was not headed...yet, to the basement and the interrogation rooms. He had never been in this building, as GRU and KGB were often at odds with each other, but from information gleaned from their spies, military intelligence knew the layout of the Lubyanka quite well, and Illya was sure the KGB was as familiar with the _Aquarium, _as the GRU headquarters was so called.

They stepped out to the floor and he was lead down to a door half way down the grey hallway. There he was asked by his escort to surrender his weapons and was subjected to being padded down before entering. Then he was asked to hand over his coat as well.

It was an ordinary looking door with no name placard on it, as the escort knocked then waited to open it until he was bid to enter.

Illya preceded him and was summarily announced.

"Komrade Direktora , eto Komrade Kirill Nickovich Andropov." A man with greying hair and glasses spoke to him as he rose from his chair.

Illya recognized him instantly. It was Yuri Andropov, the head of the KGB since he was appointed to the post barely a year ago.

He was a powerful man, possibly one of the most powerful men in all of the Soviet Union, having been been first Secretary of the Central Committee of Komsomol in the Soviet Karelo-Finnish Republic , then he was elected Second Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Karelo-Finnish SSR. He had been Soviet Ambassador in Hungary and held the position during the Hungarian Revolution and played a key role in crushing the uprising.

Andropov returned to Moskva from Budapest to head the Department for Liaison with Communist and Workers' Parties in Socialist Countries, holding the position until last year. He was a full member of the CPSU Central Committee and was promoted to the Secretariat of the CPSU Central Committee wihtin only a year and last year he was relieved of his work in the Central Committee apparatus and appointed head of the KGB .

Illya was very much aware of the man and his policies as Andropov was the main proponent of "extreme measures" as it was he who ordered the fabrication of false intelligence not only for public consumption, but also for the Soviet Politburo.

It was the KGB who was no doubt stirring up the fear that Czechoslovakia would fall victim to NATO aggression or to some sort of coup. Reports that from Washington stated that Yuri Andropov had gained access to reliable documents proving that neither the C.I.A. or any other agency was manipulating the Czechoslovak reform movement.

But the hard copies of this information were conveniently destroyed as they contradicted the conspiracy theory fabricated by Andropov. Word was now that he had ordered a number of active measures, called operation _PROGRESS,_ against Czechoslovak reformers, with his goal to eliminate dissetion in all its forms, as he insisted that the _struggle for human rights was a part of an imperialist plot to undermine the foundation of the Soviet state_.

The previous year he had proposed to establish for dealing with the political opposition, a KGB Fifth Directorate for counter intelligence. It was established and entered in its files cases of all Soviet dissidents including those of Sakharov and Solzhenitsyn. And most recently he had ordered State security agencies to combat the ideological sabotage by the _adversary_, calling for more actions against _dissidents and their imperialist masters. _

Yes, he was powerful, and he was standing and smiling at Illya Kuryakin thinking that he was Kiril Andropov, or at least Illya hoped that was the case? He had not anticipated meeting with such a man and would have to be extremely careful, watching his every word and move.

Illya swallowed hard as the Director approached him, suddenly clasping him by the shoulders and kissing him on either cheek.

Dobro pozhalovatʹ, Komrade . YA dolzhen skazatʹ, chto ya ne mog bytʹ lyuboĭ gordyĭ slyshatʹ, chto vy nositʹ imya Andropova_Welcome, Komrade. I have to say that I could not be any prouder to hear that you bear the name Andropov. Would that I had such a son as you." He laughed ." Where is your family from?

Illya raised his chin with pride before he spoke. "Spacibo, Komrade Director, but you flatter me. I was born in Kyiv...but my father was Russian." Illya suspected that the man knew much more about Kiril than he was letting on, and surely he knew equally as much about Illya Kuryakin.

"Ah Russian, good... none of that Ukranian blood in your veins then! Come Komrade sit with me and tell me how you took down this elusive enemy of the KGB?"

The Director snapped his fingers, and an assistant silently appeared carrying a tray with a bottle of Stolichnaya and a pair of finely cut crystal glasses.

"Come we toast before to regale me of your wondrous feat." He said as he took the bottle and glasses in his hands and pouring a hearty glassful of vodka for each of them.

Andropov raised his glass and Illya followed suit. "To the newest Hero of the Soviet Union." He said then downed his drink.

Illya did the same then took the chance, playing the _humble _card, " Pozhaluĭsta, ·eer, ya ne geroĭ_please sir, I am no hero." Yet he noticed that the Director wore the the red-ribboned gold star on the left breast of his dark suit jacket. _Герой Советского Союза._..the title _Hero of the Soviet Union, _it was the highest distinction to be awarded personally or collectively for heroic feats in service to the Soviet state and society.

"Nonsense young man. You did a great service to your government, ridding us of this Kuryakin fellow. When I took over the KGB last year, I was astonished to hear of his existence and even more so that our own people had not eliminated him all these years." Andropov filled their glasses again. This agreement that the GRU set up with this ridiculous U.N.C.L.E. organization was simply preposterous. Giving up one of our own agents and not expecting him to deliver intelligence to us when he is there right in the heart of one of our greatest adversaries, the United States. And this Kuryakin went along with it, the traitorous dog!"

"So now tell me how you got him and to a good story then," he smiled, leaning forward to listen as he tipped another glass of vodka.

The man's body language at least told Illya there was genuine interest on the part of Yuri Andropov. So he knew he had to tell the story of Illya Kuryakin's demise with a little drama and egotism that Kiril would have surely done himself.

"Da, to a good story Komrade director," Illya toasted with just a bit of trepidation.

Illya had the details set in his mind, and told the Director of how he had been observing U.N.C.L.E. headquarters and watched during midday as his target exited the building, and then after followed him up Fifth Avenue into Central Park, the agent took a leisurely walk and had obviously let his guard down.

"The fool had been softened by living in the decadent West, and he had no idea I was following him. Once we reached a place where I was free of witnesses and anyone who could come to his aid...I went in for the _kill. _I took him down just south of the Belvedere Tunnel. After a brief struggle, I drove my knife up under his chin, and there I left him there in the shadows, laying there as he died, choking on his own blood." Illya said coldly, but with an air of satisfaction in his voice.

After discovering the _perversions _of his brother, not his bisexuality...that was not an issue, but his abuse of women and his molestation of children was. Illya forced himself not to imagine the things Kiril had done to such innocents, the photographs he found were enough.

Illya no longer felt a sense of guilt at having killed him. He did it to protect his family and himself, but now knew the world was much better off without the likes of Kiril Andropov in it. It was only a matter of time before his deviant behavior was discovered by his superiors. Even the KGB had it's _standards, _and such deportment was not tolerated; Kiril's perversions would have eventually caught up with him.

Homosexuality though was a crime in the Soviet Union, but pedophilia completely another matter and resulted in immediate execution. Illya rationalized that he'd simply beat the KGB to the deed of eliminating Kiril Andropov.

Six shots of Stoli later, the Director returned to the subject of the Hero's medal, then man hit him with it...something Illya had not anticipated this soon.

"I have to tell you something quite odd has been brought to my attention. I know you had met Kapitan Popyrin, the assistant to Colonel Lesnichy..."

"Here it comes, " Illya thought, preparing himself as he guessed he was in trouble now and this had all been a ruse on the part of the Director before he let the sword drop. It seemed that that _Sword of Damocles _had never really gone away from dangling over his head all these years and now it was about to fall.

"Yes sir, I remember the man...a somewhat groveling individual if I may be so bold to say."

"Hmmm. It seems Kapitan Popyrin was just fished out of the Vistual River along with his bullet-ridden car."

"Really? Was he on an assignment Komrade Director, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

"No he was not, Colonel Lesnichy had reported him missing and then Popyrin's body was found inside his Mercedes in the Vistual River...along with a Trabant sitting nearby, along the river's edge with the tires shot out and riddled with bullet holes as well...your Trabant Komrade, issued to you in East Berlin. So Kiril Nickovich, you would not _happen_ to know anything about this would you?" Andropov leaned in further now, leering at him.

"No Komrade Director, in regards to Kapitan Popyrin." Illya answered without flinching," I was accosted while on route to Warsaw, and my car was stolen by thugs...most likely some of these dissidents filled with boldness, spurred on by the ravings of Alexander Dubçek. I obtained another car in the city in order to complete my courier assignment to Kyiv and then continue to Moskva."

Illya paused, looking concerned before he spoke again to the Director.

"Could the Kapitan have taken it upon himself to go after some of these malcontents? Though I must add that it seems odd that Kapitan Popyrin and my car would be in the same vicinity. The odds against that must quite high?" Illya said just enough to hopefully to plant a seed of doubt in the Director's mind.

"This explains why your car was found, and it is our estimation as well Komrade. Popyrin was not in good favor at the moment, as he had a tendency to not show the proper respect for his superiors and was unable to follow orders well. It is surmised that he most likely looked to gain favor by capturing the leaders of the dissident movement in Warsaw. Though I agree with you, how he managed to make contact with the ones that stole your car is most surprising."

"Da-eer_yes sir," Illya answered, keeping is face completely deadpan.

"Horosho_good, that is settled," Andropov said as he sat back in his chair. Now Komrade as you are being honored, there will be a medal ceremony at the Kremlin in two days time after the May Day parades, so you will have some time to rest up as I know your drive here was quite arduous... the fact that you survived being attacked by _thugs_ is another testament to your strength."

"Two days sir?" Illya tried not swallowing when he heard that news.

"Da Komrade. Go buy yourself a new suit for the occasion." he smiled. Andropov scribbled an address and handed it to him. "This is the name of my personal taylor, go see him and he will take care of you. And do not worry about the expense...a gift from me to our newest Soviet Hero. I expect great things from you Kiri Nickovich _Andropov._"

"Spacibo Komrade Director, I am overwhelmed at your generosity and confidence in me. " Illya graciously accepted the paper from this powerful man with a simple nod.

"Good then, it is settled then. I will see you in two days time." Andropov said as he ushered Illya to the door.

He left the office, letting out a sigh of relief as he stepped out into the hallway, momentarily forgetting his escort was standing there.

"I had the same reaction myself when I first met with the Komrade Director," the man whispered, " He is a formidable man, yet you survived." He handed Illya his weapon and coat, then escorted him back downstairs and Illya left the building, exuding an air of self assurance. But once outside he began to shake, his body's way of relieving the tension he had just been under.

Reaching into his pocket; he took hold of the coin whispering, "Spacibo." Thinking of both his Father and Grandfather. "I will need your help further please?"

Illya realized that if he had to be in the Kremlin in two days , then he would never to be able to be in Gorky by May 8th. This was a major complication, and one he hadn't foreseen. He had no choice but to leave immediately, and devised a plan of action to hopefully cover himself for a few days.

Illya returned to Kiril's apartment, but not before stopping off to buy some supplies. They cost him dearly as fresh fruit, meat and cheese were not always easy to purchase, unless one was willing to pay.

He was going to set up a ruse of his own in the apartment...at the moment that was all that he could think of confuse anyone who came looking for him when he didn't show up for that medal ceremony.

When he arrived at Kiril's apartment, he ripped open the duffle bag, removing the layers of money that it had been lined with. This was his reserve for his other needs for transportation and most likely bribes that would need to be paid.

Then he proceeded to set up the room, making it look as if Kiril had spent the next two days there. He put the fruit in a bowl, removing one apple and taking a bite out of it then setting it on the table. Then out came a pack of Turkish cigarettes, and he lit three of them. He let two sit smouldering in the ashtray beside the bowl of fruit, as he continued to take drags on the one in his mouth. He coughed violently a couple of times, then snuffed that one in the ashtray as well.

Then he placed a book next to it on the table, a copy of _The Communist Manifesto,_ with a paper book mark laid aside as if he were still reading the book. He put an open bottle of vodka there as well, taking a swig out of it before he poured a glass, setting it down as well.

He put some of the perishables he had bought in the small refrigerator, a piece of precious beef, fresh vegetables, cheese and a small loaf of potato Babka...that he cut a few slices off and wrapped them in a small hand towel to take with him along with some of the cheese and fruit. It would have to suffice as his dinner while on the road.

Everything was placed carefully, painting a picture of someone enjoying a few days of leisure to himself. Then the _pièce de résistance..._ he laid the chair by the table down so it looked as it had been pushed away in a hurry, then near the bed he knocked over the night stand and lamp, letting it smash on the floor. He pulled mattress and the bedding awry, making look as though there had been a struggle then lastly and the least pleasant of his additions to the scene, he sliced his arm with his knife...letting the blood splatter on the sheets. Then he walked across the room, letting the blood continue to drip until he reached the door. There he wrapped the wound in a towel to staunch the bleeding.

Illya backtracked to where the blood trail began, and he pulled a pair of Kirils boots along it, making it look as if a body had been dragged. So when who ever it was who came in search of Kiril would think he had been attacked and dragged off. That would cause confusion and hopefully start a search for him in Moskva and no where else.

He waited until after sunset, taking nothing but his shaving kit, supply of food and a thermos filled with tea. Wearing comfortable clothing, his wool coat and ushanka; he slipped out of the building...doing his own dance in the dark like so many others, slinking off avoiding they eyes of others. Climbing into the Syrena, he started it and set off for Komsomolskaya Square.

He arrived twenty minutes later at his destination, seeing the sign _Ленингра́дский вокза́л__Leningradsky Rail Terminal the oldest of Moscow's nine principal railway stations.

Illya parked the car nearby, noting there seemed to be an unsavory lot milling about, and hoped the car would be gone when he returned with his charge. But he coudn't worry about that now and would deal with it if the problem arose if and when they returned.

There were only three ways to make the 318 mile trip to Gorky from Moscow and that was by train, bus or by car. There was also an airport, but the planes were rarely operating that could take anyone in that direction. The bus was out of the question as was the car as they would take too long. He needed to move quickly and traveling by train would be the most expeditious means now. The faster he could travel, get back and head up to the Finnish border before they came looking for him and most likely Vasya Krantrashviili, the better of he would be.

He purchased his ticket for the famed train no. 1 on the Trans-Siberian Railway, then waited until the train arrived, not surprised that it was running late. He chose one of the blue-grey, white and red passenger cars, then finding himself a seat in the back of it, he settled in for the four and a half hour train ride that would get him to Moskovsky Railway station in Gorky, knowing that everything needed to go like clockwork from this moment forward.

.

* ref "Petrushka"


	23. Chapter 23

Once the train was moving Illya unwrapped his meager supper, nibbling on the Babka and cheese and sipping his tea. He finished that off in no time then ate two apples as a sort of desert, but with his appetite and metabolism the way they were, it wasn't a very satisfying meal.

There was a copy of Правда_ Pravda laying on the seat beside him and he picked it up to read as it was dated with yesterday's date. He thumbed through it, finding it filled with the usual Communist propaganda denouncing Alexander Dubçeck and the Prague spring, as well as the suppression of dissidents.

Communist party leaders were notorious for using Pravda as their springboard to gain support. Former Party Leader Khrushchev had used his alliance with Dmitry Shepilov, _Pravda_'s editor-in-chief, to gain the upper hand in his struggle with Prime Minister Georgy Malenkov and he noted the current editorial was gushingly pro-Breshnev and calling out for the invasion of Czechoslovakia.

He found it ironic as the names of the main Communist newspaper and the main Soviet newspaper, _Pravda_ and _Izvestia_, meant "the truth" and "the news" respectively and he mumbled to himself... "_V Pravde net izvestiy, v Izvestiyakh net pravdy_In the Truth there is no news, and in the News there is no truth." _A saying uttered by many under their breath.

He continued reading, finding some mention of the unrest in France, giving support to the actions of their Communist brethren against Charles De Gaul. Following months of conflicts between students and authorities at the University of Paris, the administration shut down that university on 2 May. Students at the Sorbonne University in Paris met on 3 May to protest against the closure and the threatened expulsion of several students at Nanterre. On Monday, 6 May, the national student union and the union of university teachers called a march to protest against the police invasion of Sorbonne The police then responded with tear gas and charged the crowd again. Hundreds more students were arrested.

Illya shook his head...this was not the Sorbonne he remembered when he attended school there. Things were changing so much, and rapidly.

The was still the uproar going on in the U.S. because of North Korea having captured U.S.S. _Pueblo _in January. And they were still dealing with the effects of the Tet offensive in Vietnam. The prospect of an invasion in Czechososlovakia troubled him as well...yes things were changing. The activities of Thrush seemed almost trivial compared to everything that was happening in the world, and none of it was their doing. He wondered if the globe in such an uproar could even survive its own problems along an onslaught from Thrush?

As he read on there were the usual denouncements against the United States and it's involvement in Vietnam. Student protesters at Columbia University in New York City took over administration buildings and shut down the university after students discovered links between the university and the institutional apparatus supporting the United States' involvement in the Vietnam War. The protests resulted in the student occupation of many university buildings and their eventual violent removal by the Police Department.

There was an article denouncing the Imperialist United States and the testing of a nuclear weapon in the Nevada desert as part of a series of nuclear tests mostly conducted in Nevada since last blasts involved underground detonation, supposedly intending to stimulate production of natural gas by cracking the rock in the underground formation of its deposit. But Pravda accused the Americans of developing a new type of nuclear weapon in a weak attempt to prove it's nuclear superiority over the Soviet program.

He finally laid the paper aside, bored with the usual censorship, rhetoric and manipulations of the truth, and resisted the urge to rub his tired eyes. The contacts had to remain in and he dare not go to sleep, so he leaned his elbow on the arm of his seat and rested his chin in his hand, watching out the window.

The colors of spring and rebirth were there somewhere in the darkness but not as obvious as one would think even in the peaceful Russian countryside...the only clue that it was spring was there was no more snow, and the grasses were green. But his eyes could only catch the faint impressions of trees and streams as the train moved past them. It was a shame that it was dark, as he would have liked to have seen the undisturbed beauty of this part of the Nizhny Novgorod Oblast that encompassed the northern region the upper Volga.

Finally there they were in the distance, the lights of the city of Gorky, seeming to twinkle as the surrounding trees swayed in the wind. In previous centuries, the city was a commercial hub of Russia and the central part of the ancient town which occupied a relatively small territory on a hill dominating the confluence of the Oka and the Volga rivers. It was a city of many sights, but the first and foremost among these was it's great, brooding Kremlin built during the 16th century.

Originally the golden-bricked walls of this Kremlin were about 1.5 miles long, just some 200 yards less than that of the Moscow fortress, with eleven of it's original thirteen towers still surviving.

The urban landscape was dotted with square Soviet apartment blocks, rusting industrial facilities, merchant mansions of varied styles...baroque, modernist, eclectic and classical monuments to national icons of the Soviet and pre-Soviet past, as well as monasteries, cathedrals, churches that managed to survive the great purges.

Throughout the city, small two-storey wooden homes still predominated the landscape. Although mostly decrepit, their whimsically carved eaves, shutters and windowsills testified to the craftsmanship of home-building of a former age. Like the rest of the city's architecture, these buildings embodied what had been the values, beliefs and material culture of this city's past.

After the great Revolution Communist leaders tried to wipe out the old culture. Some churches and historical buildings were destroyed, with many of the progressive and educated people of the city imprisoned or killed.

Gorky became a closed city, and was banned to all foreigners due to its military significance. It was the source of Soviet technology and science... MIG fighter jets were made here as well as nuclear submarines. Soviet Submarines production was centered in the Gorky Shipyard on the Volgaafter which sections of subs were made and railed to Leningrad for assembly and fitting out

Arzamas-16 a small town connected to Gorky, also off limits as it was the Russian center for nuclear research, where the first Russian atomic bomb was designed. And it was there that Dr. Krantrishvili worked.

Illya was reminded of the old saying, _Moscow is Russia's heart, Leningrad- head, and Gorky - pocket._ Though despite it's highly restricted status, Gorky was one of the chief industrial cities of the Soviet Union.

He remembered his years there as a young agent for the GRU; it was his first major assignment...spying on the scientists there to ensure they were not revealing State secrets.

The train finally rolled to screeching stop at the Moskovsky Railway Station, in the Kanavino district and it was there that Illya stepped put onto the platform. It was late and knew from past experience that the city closed up tighter than a clam. He remembered there was a small restaurant near the railway station, one that stayed open into the late night hours to accommodate the passengers who were arriving in Gorky, or those who were proceeding on to destinations farther the east through Chita and Khabarovsk to Vladivostok.

He hoped it would still be open, as there he could eat, and wait to get into the Kremlin and to the apartment building where Krantrishviili lived. The majority of Gorky's residents lived in 5-9 story apartment buildings and got around by foot or tram. But he knew the back ways and preferred to walk, avoiding the public transport as well as prying eyes.

There were no maps of this city to be had, the Soviet government forbade it, part of it's intense security requirements. But Illya knew the streets well and would have no trouble finding his way around. His plan was to head up Sverdlov Street, know locally as Sverdlovka; it connected Blagoveshchenskaia Square with Gorky Square and crossed the historical central part of the city. The street was closed to all traffic except emergency vehicles and delivery vans. It would take approximately half an hour to cover the distance through the Kremlin to Blagoveshchenskaia, where Krantrishvili's apartment building was located just nearby.

Blagoveshchenskaia was the city's central square, and would be the site of the largest of tomorrows Victory Day parades. The monumnent to Kuzma Minin adorned the park on the left of the Dmitrovskaia Tower, one of the two historical monuments situated there the other was a memorial in honor of it's citizens who perished during the Great Patriotic War with two stelae, eternal flame and T-34 tank.

The city was once called Nizhy Novogrod until it had been renamed after Gorky whose real name was _Aleksey Maximovich Pyeshkov_ - the founder of the Soviet literature and a friend of Lenin who was born in Nizhny Novgorod. Pyeshkov used the pseudonym Maxim Gorky in his literature. Ironically Gorky was a Russian word for _bitter_. The works of this man were still mandatory reading for all students. "Sort of a bitter pill to swallow, when one thought of it," Illya smiled as he never cared for the works of Gorky.

The main square was a large open place where people could experience a surprisingly quiet atmosphere with natural parks and gardens surrounding it, offering a splendid view of the Volga and the lower part of the city. It would not be so quiet once the celebration and parades began tomorrow and Illya was counting on that.

Kurayakin glanced carefully around before walked across the platform, noting that he was the only one having disembarked from the train. He walked casually in the direction of the restaurant, and smiled when he saw the lights were still on and entered, seating himself at a small wooden table close to and facing the door, though not his usual seating custom, since he knew there was no safe rear exit in the place.

A young woman approached him, automatically bringing him a glass of hot tea, when he looked up to her from reading the card listing the food served she reacted to him most unexpectedly.

"Vy ! U vas yestʹnerv blizhaĭshie syuda_You! You have a nerve coming in here!" She said harshly, then the tone of her voice changed dramatically. "I thought you were coming back here to see me, you stinking _Suslik_, and here you appear after a whole year?" Now she seemed almost jovial.

She had just called him a species of a flea carrying ground squirrel notorious for having transmitted the Black Plague to humans...and that, needless to say threw him off for a moment "Der'mo, " he quickly thought," a girlfriend, a lover...a jilted lover?"

"I am sorry," he blurted out, "I was called away to Moskva...an important job."

The blond-haired woman ran her sharp fingernail along his cheek. "Ah, with you it is always important work. So mysterious, one would think you were a spy or some such thing. It is lucky for you as I was getting ready to throw your clothes out. I felt like you were just using me for a place to stay when you come here to Gorky" She puckered her lips, as she pouted to him. "Am I still your snuggly Svetlana bear?"

"Please, do not say that." Illya looked into her eyes, "_spy_ that is, you know the walls have ears, and yes you are still my _snuggly bear._" Illya cringed at saying that. Kiril's personas had become mind-boggling at this point, and Illya concluded that his brother was a pseudo-masochistic lunatic, with seemingly multiple personalities; though all his personal and social masks seemed to lead to abuse of some sort. Illya snickered thinking that Dr. Mansur back in New York would have loved to have studied Kiril.

"You must understand," he answered her," I was _delayed, _as I was out of the country. Please maybe we can meet for some drinks tonight...we can _catch_ up?" He deceivingly he took her hand, drawing it to his lips and kissedI it seductively.

Svetlana smiled in wicked anticipation. "Yes please? I have missed those lips of yours and _other_ things...and you _know_ how I like it rough. I cannot wait to be with you, Kirushenka, it has been a long time . I get out of work at sunset. You can meet me here or perhaps..."

"Da, at your place," he smiled, relieved that she had gone for it. "Now I must trouble you for some food, I have had a long hungry trip and I keep my strength up for what I have planned to do you my Svetlana, but until then, I have an appointment to keep within the city."

"What would you like my hungry beast...besides me?" she smiled.

"Blini with tvorog and kasha and some extra black bread and butter.

"My Kiril, your travels have made your appetite grow...I hope your appetite for _other _things has as well?"

"You shall see tonight when I ravish you," he whispered to her.

"Yes please...I still have the whips and handcuffs," she whispered back to him, then giggled as she walked away to get his meal. She returned a few minutes later bringing it, then went off to see to another patron.

Illya wolfed down his food, dropping his payment on the table as he left the small café; he nodded his good bye to the Svetlana, who was still busy but not busy enough to stop her from blowing him a kiss. He had no plan of seeking her out again for their rendezvous. As he exited to the street, he suddenly hoped he would not run into any more of Kiril's _acquaintances_, female or male.

He he entered the Kremlin he recalled his old haunts while he walked along Sverdlovka, heading towards the main square, hearing the pleasant songs of the nightingale and redstart as they nested in the trees that lined the streets.

As he looked around him, he noted that nothing had really changed at all, he knew where the security check points were most likely to be and knew which way to go to avoid them, yet it stood to reason that he couldn't avoid them all.

When he entered the square he encountered his first obstacle as entered Blagoveshchenskaia, a security check point as the square was now a restricted area as the next day the Victory Day Parade in all it's militaristic glory would be held. There would also be parades, but on a lesser scale in Gorky Square.

His identification was authentic and had no trouble passing security's scrutiny, as he was KGB and even the police feared that, though he was not happy that the name of Kiril Andropov now was on record as being there in the city. Once past security, he stopped at a chemist, picking up a few things he would need.

Illya made his way to Krantrishvili's building, a hulking glass and stone eyesore in the heart of Gorky, it was taller than the residential building, from his estimation fifteen stories. The path leading to the entrance was dimly lit, and as he entered the lobby, he spotted a sign on the lift.

Не рабоtаеt. " Not working?" he growled. At least the apartment was only on the fifth floor, number 52. He resigned himself to the walk as he entered the stairwell. Though it didn't surprise him that the elevator wasn't working, there were a lot of things in the Soviet Union that seemed to be in a run down condition, parts to fix things were always in short supply. Workers had to resort to makeshift and jury-rigged repairs as a matter of course. Things were bad when he left to work for U.N.C.L.E. and now they seemed to have gotten worse instead of better.

The hallway was empty when he arrived in front of Krantrishvili's door and rapping on it, using a special coded knock that had been pre-arranged, and one the scientist had been told to expect.

A moment later the door opened slightly, and an eye peeked out at him warily. "Da?" asked a muffled voice.

"Akh, Vasya, tvoĭ dorogoĭ dyadya posylaet privet·stvie ot Moskvy_aah Vasya, your dear _Uncle_ sends his greetings from Moskva." Illya gave the secondary code phrase.

"I kak moĭ Unlce Aleksi_ and how is my Unlce Alexi?" Came the proper response.

Illya pushed forward, entering the apartment with his Tokarov drawn in one fluid motion, closing the door behind him immediately and locking it.

He signalled to Krantrishvili with his finger to his lips to remain silent, then spotting a small Victrola, he turned it on and placed the arm to the record that was already on the turntable. "It is good to see you cousin, let us catch up over old times, we need some music and vodka."

The record began to play, a classical piece by a Russian composer of course, it was _Shostakovich_ performing one of his two piano concertos with André Cluytens, recorded in 1958 during a visit to Paris. Illya immediately went in to action as he turned up the volume then walked over to the scientist. "You can speak now, but not loudly."

Then Illya looked into the man's eyes for the first time and came to the instant realization as to why when he had seen his photograph back in headquarters, he had felt there was something familiar about him.

"You!" He hissed, charging at Krantrishvili, and grabbing him by the throat as he shoved him against the wall. Then he pressed his weapon to the man's temple. "I know _you! _ You were in Syrets...you, you were Rein's pet! And the _bully_ who betrayed us all!" Illya practically spat it at him.

"YA DDO ne znayu, chto vy govorite_"I ddo not know what you are talking about! What is Syrets?" He stuttered nervously. " I do not know you?"

Illya released him, then stepped back and popped the contact lenses from his eyes.

"Ah but you do... my hair then was, is blond, quite blond." Illya growled now.

Krantrishviili squinted at him, then gasped as he looked into those distinctinve bright, though blood-shot blue eyes, recognizing them instantly. "Not possible...you are dead, no you died!" The man was completely aghast. "Illya, the smart-mouthed, dirty faced little blond who fancied himself a protector of the children?"•

"Yes _Vasily_ it is me." Illya whispered to him in a most threatening voice. "I survived! And I should kill you where you stand."

Illya again aimed the gun at Vasily, fully intending to shoot him. Then he cursed himself. angry that he had not recognized this animal sooner, not Vasya but Vasily...no one ever knew last names in the camp.

"Tvoyu mat'm! Yebatʹ menya_fuck! Fuck me!" He cursed, knowing that as badly as he wanted to, he could not kill this man in cold blood.

Vasily's face relaxed. "But you will not, enh? I can see you are still the honorable one." He smiled. " I am amazed that you survived, you were so skinny at the end, I was sure you had starved to death."

He was acting the bully again, and gloating even with the Tokarov still in Illya's hand.

"Still the righteous one." Vasily smiled sardonically, though there were beads of sweat forming on his forehead. "Well back then we did what we had to to in order to survive. Amazing, the last time I saw you, you were being felt up by that Nazi Doctor...so did he fuck you good, _little one?"_

Those two words stung just they had when Karl Voelker uttered them to him, first in the concentration camp and then when he was his prisoner in East Berlin. *

That bold taunting sent Illya closer to the edge and again he charged forward, slamming his fist into the man's head, knocking him to the floor. Vasily pulled himself up, wiping the blood from his mouth.

"Keep your fucking mouth shut, or I swear I _will _kill you." Illya said. "Defectors die all the time, you would be written off as just one who did not _make it. _Do not think that you are _that_ important so as to be sure I would not do it." He made a threat that he knew he would not keep, as much as his heart ached to exact his revenge against this man but he was honor bound to complete his mission and that tore at him. At least he received some satisfaction as seeing the svoloch' cower.

His statement hit Vasily Krantrishviili hard and the scientist began to shake as he seated himself at his table.

Illya holstered his pistol, then pulled the vial that was in his pocket and placed the contact lenses in their solution. Then he doused his eyes with saline.

"So what is your plan Illya?" Vasily asked nervously.

"Do not defile that name. You call me Kiril. I am Kiril Andropov." Illya hissed as he reached into the paper sack he had brought with him and tossed a bottle of hair dye to the table.

"Here, you need change your hair color, do it now and no conversation from the bathroom...remember, _they _are listening." He said thinking back to his days of having had to sit with headphones, listening in on his assigned scientists while recording their conversations on a large reel-to-reel tape recorder. It was endless hours of tedious eavesdropping that sometimes paid off as he'd caught a few of them trying to pass precious Soviet secrets. Those men were never heard from again.

It was then that Illya finally saw it, a true look of fear in Vasily's eyes, and he smiled in satisfaction to himself. Reminding him of the fact that they were being listened in on brought that hard realization home.

When he was done, he stepped from the bathroom closing the door after himself; his hair had gone from salt and pepper grey to dark brown, making him look much younger.

"So the plan then?" He asked again as he towel-dried his head, then combed his thinning hair, slicking it back.

Illya smiled impishly, refusing to answer. "Whatever you have to eat, get it for me," He said coldly as he remained seated, making Vasily the bully wait upon him.

* ref "The Gambit Affair"


	24. Chapter 24

"Food? You are thinking of food at a time like this. Should we not be..."

"I am hungry. You remember that word. _Hungry_?" Illya quirked his eyebrows as he laid the Tokarov on the table in front of himself as he sat down across from Vasily.

He eyed the weapon warily. " I have goulash...bread some fruit."

"Good, get it ready then." Illya ordered him. He made the man prepare and serve the food like a servant, not speaking a word to him.

Then when the meal was finished, and Vasily went to clean up, Illya told to leave it. "No need to bother, as we leave early tomorrow, and you will not be coming back. Now go to bed and say nothing more. And if I am asleep when you come back out, do not for any reason touch me as it would have deadly _consequences_."

Illya turned off the phonograph as Vasily retreated into his bedroom, then settled into a comfortable chair, still holding his weapon and resting it on his chest.

He slept lightly, but undisturbed and was up before sunrise and had gone through Vasily's closet. He'd layered out a change of clothing for his charge, to be combined with what he'd purchased. Then he washed up, finally shaving again. Then lastly he inserted the lenses back onto his eyes, assuring himself it would be over soon.

The kettle came to a boil and he made tea, then munched on a thick slice of brown bread with butter as well as a piece of fruit after which he finally woke Vasily.

Walking quietly into the bedroom; Illya touched him on the shoulder then put a finger to his mouth, indicating for him to again be quiet, then he walked from the room and turned the on the phonograph again, this time selecting a more popular style of music...surprisingly Vasily had records by bards like Vladimir Vysotsky, Bulat Okudzhava, Alexander Galich; perfomers who fell under the umbrella term of _авторская песня___authors' song,_ a term for the singer-songwriters movement that was gaining so much in popularity that their music was being distributed by the state owned _Melodiya_ record company.

He remembered seeing a small article in Pravda that a performance of bard music called the _Grushinsky Festival__,_ was to be held for the first time near the city of Samara, on the Mastryukovo lakes. The festival being given its name from Valeri Grushin, a singer-songwriter who died during a backcountry camping trip trying to save his drowning friends.

The major landmark of the festival was to be the stage built on the raft, in the shape of a guitar, with its fingerboard serving as a bridge to the shore. The Grushin Mountain ridge would as natural stands for thousands of expected visitors.

And now seeing the likes of even Vasily Krantrishvili possessing recordings from artists from within what could only be classified as a folk movement, Illya couln't help but think he was seeing the beginning of Russian pop and rock music. The West was apparently having it's influences on the Soviets whether they wanted it or not. It could be compared to the American folk revival movement of the early 60s, with their simple single-guitar arrangements and poetical lyrics, words that made commentaries and protests. If those such songs began to appear then he concluded again, things would indeed be changing.

Illya chose a series of recordings by Vladimir Vysotsky, and listened with interest to the style and voicings of his guitar playing. The first song was written in a minor key, and seemed to employ from three to seven chords, and he took note that these chords could only have been possible on a seven string guitar...possibly tuned a tone or a tone-and-a-half below the traditional Russian open G major tuning. Such tuning down to a tone and a half, would make the strings have less tension, which would also color the sound.

He decided he liked the recording and would once he had gotten home, look further into this music movement. "Once he got _home..._yes he would get there," somehow he knew it, his gut told him that and he smiled as he continued listening to the recording.

Vasily trudged out to the kitchen table dressed in his pajamas and robe, making himself some toasted bread with butter and jam and helping himself to a glass of tea that Illya had made.

Kuryakin picked up his woolen coat, undoing the stitching of the hem of the inner lining, then he removed the feather-light things he had secreted in there days before.

He held up a false moustache and beard to Vasily's face, then did the same with a set of identity papers with a photograph that had been doctored, comparing the two likenesses..

Satisfied, he then handed the man a vest that was obviously too large for him, and Vasily commented on that.

"You will be wearing a few layers underneath, as we need to give the impression that you are a little heavier. Now get dressed, and I will apply your beard and moustache when you are ready." He handed the man four undershirts to put on beneath his shirt and vest.

Once Vasily was changed, Illya applied the facial hair with spirit gum, then pulled a pair of wire-rim glasses from his pocket and added them as the finishing touch, then he stepped back inspected the look and then nodded that the transformation was satisfactory.

Illya handed over a new identity papers, and a short background history.

"Memorize it carefully, then it must be destroyed."

Then he looked at his watch...it was nearly time. The crowds would be gathering as the parades had started. He emptied his shaving kit, putting only his toothbrush, razor, a bar of soap into the paper sack, along with a small bottle of solution that would be needed later to remove the dye from his hair to change his own look as they neared the border.

"We go now," he announced a few minutes later.

"But my things...I have not packed and there are things I wish go bring with me." Vasily protested.

"Nyet!" Illya said sharply with a definitive wave of his hand. "You leave with nothing but your life and you are lucky enough to still have that!"

Illya burned the copy of the bio in a glass bowl. "Remember you are Anton Alekseev Gregorovich and you work for the ministry of records in the Kremlin. If we are stopped, you are to say nothing. I am escorting you back to Moskva for questioning regarding irregularities in your filing system as documents are missing."

Vasily's face went pale, he'd read it in the bio but hearing now was frightened him.

"Since you are from Kyiv, keep that in mind as your background if it is required. Under no circumstances are you to speak to anyone unless you are spoken to. Only answer questions if you are asked directly, and answer them specifically, do not _offer_ any additional information. The less said, then the less likely you will get in trouble. Too many lies upon lies can trip you up. Understood?"

Vasily nodded nervously as he began to perspire again.

Illya saw that and hoped it would not be a problem, and tossed the man a hand towel. "Wipe that sweat from your brow and calm down, other wise you will give yourself away. I for one plan to return to my family alive and well and if your performance is not good, then I will leave you Vasily...if I do not kill you."

"_You _have a family? I did not think spies could do that? How many children do you have?"

"A son and a daughter, and I _will_ return to them, regardless of what happens to you." Illya with a cold assurance. "Hopefully you will not be missed until tomorrow since all the government facilities are closed for May Day. Still we must move quickly."

Illya opened the door, checking that the dim hallway was clear, then he stepped out, pulling the frightened scientist after him.

They made their way down the staircase, to the lobby but before exiting to the street Illya had Vasily lower his hands and much to the mans surprise, a set of handcuffs were put on. and out to the streets, now crowded with pedestrians heading to line up in the square for the parade, the two of them quickly disappearing among the sea of moving bodies.

Illya moved with deliberation, making sure Vasily stayed with him and all the while his eyes were darting in every direction watching for anything that looked suspicious and at the same time trying not to look suspicious himself. He stopped for a moment, whispering to Vasily that he needed to calm down and act naturally as if he were just someone going to the parade, as the man looked frightened out of him head.

They approached the security checkpoint at the exit poite of Blagoveshchenskaia Square, and Illya offered his documents, along with those of Anton Gregorovich without waiting to be asked.

As soon as the young guard saw the KGB credentials he stiffened, and immediately handed the documents back to Illya without question, allowing them to pass. He knew better than to question KGB business.

"Poor bastard," He mumbled as he watched the man named Gregorovich lead away.

They passed through two more such checkpoints with security having been increased because of the parades. Though Illya was not happy about Kiril's name being logged, along with the name of hid supposed prisoner. Once they reached the outer section of the city Illya discreetly removed the cuffs then handed Vasily back his identity papers.

They headed down to the river, to a place where many of the tourist boats docked as they sailed up and down the Volga. There Illya purchased tickets. They boarded the double decker boat, painted the same red, sky blue and white as the passenger cars of the Trans-siberian line, the name on it was _Русалка_...Rusalka, a female nymph from Russian legend that dwelt in waterways.

Illya was familiar with these sort of water craft, they did not have internal water-resistant bulkheads and that made them vulnerable to any hole in the hull. This particular boat, from the style of it looked to be from the mid-fifties.

It was early in the season, so not many of the tour boats were active on the river yet. He and Vasily leaned upon the railing and watched as a small tug guided them to out to the channel, giving several quick warnings with it's air horn, holding the Rusalka in place as a barge and an oil tanker passed them by.

The wind blew Illya's hair wildly as they sailed up the Volga, to _Балахна́__Balakhna a town on the right bank of the Volga 32 kilometers north of Gorky from there the would board the train to Moskva.

"Why did we take this instead of a train from Gorky, would that not have been be faster?" Vasily whispered.

"Do not question my actions." He snapped, " I know what I am doing. Though they may not know you are gone yet, they will most surely be checking all the departing trains when they do. The train station in Gorky is under video surveillance...the tourist boats are and the station in Balakhna are not."

They left the boat at Balakhna as planned, boarding the train as Illya had planned, then settled in for the trip back to Moskva. Vasily slept while Illya looked out the window most the time, when not casually checking out the other passengers who moved in and out of the car.

This time he could at least clearly see the Russian countryside, dominated by Siberian fir,Scots pine,Siberian spruce,Norway spruce andSiberian larch, he spotted Silver anddowny birches breaking up the sea of green. Among them there were a few unexpected species, English oak,Norway maple and elm.

As they passed one of the many streams he saw an elk darting from one side to the other and a snowy owl swooped from a tree, gliding gracefully through the air until it landed on a rather large Norway spruce.

It was such natural, innocent beauty and someday Illya hoped would be able to show it to his children... if not, then his grandchildren. He had a feeling the Soviet Union was slowly heading in a positive direction...there were signs of it here and there, signals that made him look forward to something good on the horizon for his...former home.

He let himself smile when he saw the sign from the distance as they slowly approached the station, _Ленингра́дский вокза́л__Leningradsky Rail Terminal. When the train creaked to a stop he motioned for Vasily to get up.

Thankfully the trip was uneventful, and the Syrena was still where he had left it.

The Syrena was still where he had left it parked and as they approached it, he spotted an unsavory group of thugs heading towards them, brandishing heavy batons. "Get in now!" he ordered Vasily, as he unlocked the doors and dove into the drivers seat.

He started the car and took off as Krantrishvasili barely made it into the moving vehicle.

"KGB?" he cried out.

"No, a gang of thugs...we were about to be mugged," Illya answered calmly.

"How did you know that, they could have been KGB?"

"If they were KGB then we would not be driving away in this car as we would be standing back there with AK-47s aimed at us," he replied coldly, " now do not distract me as I must keep watch to be sure we are not being followed."

Illya drove along the outskirts of Moskva, trying to avoid checkpoints at all cost. He knew that they needed to stay under the radar and would have surely less than a day before Krantrishvili was found missing, putting it together with Kiril Andropov being there and having left Gorky with a prisoner, instead appearing in the Kremlin for his medal ceremony.

He was feeling exhausted, as what sleep he had over the past few days had done little for him and decided that he had no choice but to let Vasily take over the driving for him, just for a short while. They needed to arrive at the border crossing in Finland, and do it by the 11th. It was May 8th, and that gave them time to make the journey without obvious haste, but at the same time they had to be cautious as to once both Andropov and Krantrishvasili had been linked and found missing, the search for them would be on.

If they were spotted heading north at least the 1,340 kilometre-long border that separated Finland and Russia would make it difficult to pinpoint which crossing they would be heading to. Finland's eastern border was on the northern fringes of the Iron Curtain across Europe, and the closeness of the border aroused both fear and awe on both sides.

The southernmost point of the land border between Finland and Russia was located on the shores of the Gulf of Finland, while the common boundary mark of Finland, Norway and Russia on Muotkavaara in Lapland was the northernmost tip. Some sections of the border were straight, while other sections meandered through the shores of lakes and rivers, at the edge of bogs and fields, or in the middle of a forest.

Towards the north, the terrain became hilly, and in Lapland an uninhabited wilderness. The border zone on the Finnish side had a maximum width of three kilometres on land and four kilometres on sea. The outermost limit of the border zone is marked with yellow signs, rings painted on trees and plastic tape attached to trees. The actual boundary line was a strip of land between poles and stones acting as boundary marks. On the Finnish side the poles are blue and white, and on the Russian side, red and green.

When back at Langely in Virginia Illya had formulated his plan to make it past the Border Guard Station at Torfyanovka, their last destination within Russia and it was there they would cross the outermost limit of the border zone to Vaalimaa in Finland.

Finland's eastern border was on the northern fringes of the Iron Curtain across Europe, and the closeness of the border aroused both fear and awe. Entering and crossing the border was only possible in special cases . The border was heavily fortified and guarded and there were no contacts between people living on the two sides even though the distance between them was only a few kilometres.

Illya had the C.I.A. specialists create other identities for both he and the scientist... Finnish passports, complete with fake Russian entry stamps and if all went well they'd cross to the waiting arms of the C.I.A. and they were passed to him by Hannibal Solo when they had met in Red Square.

If they missed the appointed date of May 11th, then they would be trapped on the Russian side of the border and most likely be taken prisoner.

Illya Kuryakin had been tried and convicted of treason in absentia by the KBG, even though he was still classified as an agent of Glavnoye Razvedyvatel'noye Upravleniye. That meant nothing to them, and as far as the KGB was concerned he was a traitor and had been sentenced to execution...that would be his fate if captured. And Vasily would most likely be sent to a gulag, if he wasn't killed. In Illya's estimation either fate was too good for the man, but that was neither here nor there.

It was his job to get the man out and that he was going to manage it somehow.

Vasily remained virtually silent as he drove, keeping a nervous watch in the rear view mirror. He had no idea where they were and when the petrol gauge was getting low so he finally woke Illya up, calling out to him.

"Wake up Kuryakin. We need to fine fuel for this gas guzzling hulk of a car. At least you could have gotten something better for us to travel in."

Illya flashed him a dirty look. "Pull over, " he grumbled.

Vasily did as as instructed then got out, and Illya traded places with him after consulting a map. He started up the car again the turned off the motorway and onto a local road. Not a kilometer away he found a State run station simply marked бензин, petrol.

Illya got out, paid for the fuel then pumped it under the watchful eye of the attendant, then got back wearily into the car and started back towards the motorway. It was then that Vasily finally spoke to him.

"Why are you doing this, you are obviously stretched beyond your physical limits...you are helping me, a person you detest and would rather see dead?"

Illya thought before he answered that. "Once long ago a Rom gypsy told me that I would grow to be a good man and would use my knowledge to do good things and that I would live beyond the sadness in my life. I remain true to his words to honor him and my father, brother and the rest of my family who died at the hands of the Nazis. That is something that someone such as you I suppose will never understand...love, loyalty, friendship and honor." He paused for a second, hardening himself for his next words." But do not think that because I am an honorable man that I am beyond killing you Vasily Krantrishvasili. Again I warn you...do not provoke me."

"Yes you do what you must, under the guise of being honorable" Vasily replied, "but you are a trained killer. You murder when it suits you, and you do what you have to to survive, as I did what I had to to survive myself. You are no better than me."

Illya's face reddened with anger. "I am nothing like you! Do not dare to compare what I do to your actions. What you did was unconscionable, eavesdropping on the poor souls in that camp, turning them in to Rein for the merest of infractions, and then you stood by watching as he and his guards tortured those people and beat them to death and what you did to innocent children... That animal Voelker impregnated my friend Irina because you took her to him, it was because of your actions that she was sent to her death in the vans and all for the price of a loaf of stale bread! Sacrificing the lives of others so that you might live...no, there is not a chance in hell that any of what you did could ever be justified! Just shut your mouth, as I do not wish to hear the sound of your voice!"

Vasily laughed boldly, knowing that Kuryakin would do him no harm; he was sure that the self righteous defender of the younger children in Syrets was indeed the self proclaimed _honorable_ man and would fulfill his assignment in spite of his feelings. He had detested Illya for that reason in the concentration camp when they were young, and he realized that now he still hated him, and any such self righteous person.

It was his belief that watching out for yourself was the best course of action, those actions saved his life back in the concentration camp. That was exactly why he was defecting to the West, not to help maintain the balance of power by sharing Soviet nuclear secrets with the Americans, but to take care of himself. He knew his usefulness back in Gorky had a limited shelf life, and it was time to get out before he ended up in a gulag or dead.

Nearly five hours later Illya pulled off the motorway into the small but picturesque town of Vyshny Volochyok located northwest of Tver River. Though it was on the main route leading north it was an insignificant place and most likely free of the prying eyes of the Secret Police. It dated back to the late 13th century and was sometimes called the _Russian __Venice_, due to the canals constructed in the 1700's by Peter the Great linking the Tveritsa and Tsna Rivers.

Vyshny Volochyok seemed like a calm oasis in a chaotic world even though it was also a center of textile manufacture, and working man's town. So the people there would be busy tending to their labors and would pay little note to two strangers stopping for a meal. People traveled through this town on a regular basis while travelling to and from Leningrad.

That was in fact _not _their destination, but it was the story that he would offered if asked. They were going there to enjoy a stay there for the _Beliye Nochi _White Nights_, though not unique to Leningrad, but it was there the northern nights received such a poetic acclaim. People were attracted to romantic walks along rivers and canals when night was as bright as early evening. It was the world's only metropolis where such a phenomenon took place every summer. Every year there were days when the downtown Leningrad was full of people, even at night.

It was a perfect excuse for two bachelor men seeking female companionship or possibly a wife, as from late May to early July nights were bright in Leningrad though the real White Nights normally lasted from June to July, due to the city's location at such a high latitude the sun did not go under the horizon deep enough for the sky to get dark. The dusk would meet the dawn with it is so bright that in summer the street lights would not be turned on.

Vyshny Volochyok was actually quite tranquil and soon they found a small cottage restaurant. The young woman working at the counter smiled at them, offering them a welcome as she guided them to the upper floor of the cottage.

They ordered their food and drink after they were seated at a simple table, while Illya warily eyed a few holiday merrymakers celebrating May Day. It was past the time that Kriril should have been at the Kremlin for his medal ceremony, and no doubt Yuri Andropov had sent agents in search of his missing hero. He hoped the bloody scene that he had left at Kiril's apartment would keep them searching for him within the city limits and not elsewhere.

The woman serving their meals let them know that there was also a bath house available for a small price. A service she said, that they offered to weary travellers on the long road to Leningrad. Illya was surprised to hear thisand after their meal and tense travel he decided to take advantage of that service, given things were at this point going well. His body was stiff and sore and the baths would do him good, it had been many years since he'd been in a _banya._

As they entered the bath, Vasily questioned the sense of doing this when they were essentially on the run.

"I have been moving nearly non-stop for too long now, and my body has been stretched to it's limits. I need to rest it and an hour of steam will suffice to do that. I think we are safe here for the moment. You can either come in with me or wait outside, it matters not to me."

Vasily opted to go in with him, rather than wait nervously outside by himself.

They walked into the The entrance room of the banya called a _predbannik_ or pre-bath, that had pegs to hang up clothing and benches to rest on. It's walls were made of large hewn logs, not unlike a log cabin. There they stripped and wrapped coarse towels around their waists. Illya handed another one to Vasily, instructing him to drape it over his head in the event the false moustache and beard became detached because of the steam.

Then they walked into the washing room. It had a hot water tap, which used water heated by a steam room stove and a vessel or tap for cold water to mix water of a comfortable temperature for washing.

The heater had three compartments: a fire box that was fed from the entrance room, the rock chamber, which had a small hole to throw the water into and a water tank at the top. The top of the water tank was closed to prevent vapour from infiltrating the banya. Water to be thrown on the rocks was be taken from the tank as this will made better steam than if cold water were used.

Illya placed his gun in a towel beside him then used water from a nearby bucket, pouring it over the heated rocks in the stove, as the two of them sat on the wooden benches. Getting a good sweat on before using water is preferred to using steam right away, as the sweat is thought to protect and condition the skin from the steam.

He sighed as the hot steam vapors swirled around him, feeling the stiffened muscles though out his body relax as he began to sweat, when he opened his eyes, he realized that Vasily was staring at him.

"You have so many scars on your body, surely you did not receive these in the camp, many of them look too new...how did you get them?" Vasily asked.

"Doing my job."

"Why? Why keep doing something that causes you so much pain? You said you have a family, why risk your life when you should be with them?"

"Because it is the right thing to do Vasily. If I sacrifice my life in the line of duty, it is for a good cause. My children know little of the evil that exists in the world, and I would keep it from them as long as I can, even if it means sacrificing my life to do it. These scars are my medals of honor, and I earned every one of them while doing my job, helping to make the world a safer place for everyones children to grow up in."

Illya then became quiet, draping a towel over his head covering his face, as he began to gently hit his back and arms with _veniks,_ bunches of dried eucalyptus branches, massaging himself with them to improved his circulation.

He glanced at Vasily from beneath the towel, noting the man's skin was pasty, his body out of shape and looking older than the actually was. It was obvious he had lead a sedentary life, most likely being confined to his laboratory.

"Vasily," he suddenly asked," you never married?"

"No, I have been devoted to my work I suppose. I was prized for my scientific abilities and it was rare that I ever left my labs. I suppose I too was doing my duty as well."

Illya snorted at that, the thought of this man doing his duty was ironic in a way, it seemed not like duty but more of a of prison term all these years as a slave of the Soviet government. For a brief moment, he _almost_ felt sorry for the man.

When they were finally done in the banya, they plunged themselves into the cold water of a nearby stream, then returned to dry and dress themselves.

"Feel better now?" Vasily asked.

"Yes I do."

The last thing Illya did was to apply more spirit gum to Vasily's disguise and then he announced it was time they were on their way. His face was again void of all emotion and he was relaxed now as the steam had done him a world of good. He felt invigorated and that energy would be sorely needed for the last leg of this mission.


	25. Chapter 25

"Gde zhe on _where is he!" bellowed Yuri Andropov. "I was publicly embarrassed that my own agent did not show up for his medal ceremony. I will have his head for this!" He pounded his fist on desk as a young Kapitan cowered in front of him. "How dare he insult being honored as a Hero of the Soviet people!"

"But Komrade Director..."

"Find him and bring him to me immediately!"

"Komrade Director, we have been to his residence and there seems to be evidence of foul play," the Kapitan was finally able to interject.

"Foul play? Explain."

"It looked as though a minor struggle may have taken place as the room and bed were disheveled and there was blood on the mattress as well a blood trail on the floor, looking as if a body had been dragged to the door."

"And how long ago was it surmised this happened?"

"Estimated at no more than twenty four hours ago...sir could he have been the target of this U.N.C.L.E. organization that Komrade Andropov indicated was after him?"

The Director nodded his head, thinking that was a distinct possibility.

Then there was a knock at the door, and a clerk entered the office holding a message in his hand.

The Director snatched the paper from him and glanced at it, then his look changed to one of surprise. "Perhaps not," he said, handing the document to the Kapitan.

"A missing scientist in Gorky? I am sorry Komrade Director, I do not understand?"

"Look a the list of agents checking in and out of the city..." he smiled.

"Kiril Andropov? Was he on an assignment there?"

"NO YOU FOOL...he was _not_. Obviously our _Hero _is up to something and it is _not_ being a good Soviet citizen."

Andropov was building to a slow boil, and Kapitan Titov made sure he was a few paces away from the Director before something came flying through the air. He knew this mild-mannered looking man who resembled someones grandfather could be quite explosive when he was upset.

Titov read more of the document, "Sir, it indicates that he was escorting a prisoner, one Anton Gregorovich here to the Kremlin. The missing scientist is listed as Vasya Krantrishvili. I do not understand?"

Yuri Andropov then became furious and a small bust of Lenin went airborne over Titov's head and smashed against the wall behind him. The Director did not like being mislead and Kiril Nickovich Adropov had done just that _and_ made a fool of him as well.

"I want him found Kapitan, understand? And that missing scientist as well. I suspect there is no Anton Gregorivich and that he is in fact Vasya Krantrishvili. I want both of them found and brought to Lubyanka...we will get to the bottom of this. I think a possible defection in progress here and I will have Kiril Andropov flayed alive for it!"

"Yes Komrade Director, it will be done. I live to serve the Soviet people!" Titov droned calmly as he saluted, then left the office.

"Vy synsuka, Kirl ... yesli eto vashe imya. V lyubom sluchae, vy budete platitʹ za eto._You son of a bitch, Kirl...if that is your name. Whoever you are, you will pay for this with your life." Yuri Andropov eyed the bust of Karl Marx...

.

Illya and Vasily returned to the car, getting quickly onto the motorway, but keeping the vehicle at an average speed so as to not to bring attention to it. But then other than being caught, the worse possible thing that could have happened did...the car broke down.

The old Syrena had finally outlived its usefulness and they were forced to leave it by the wayside, and now what should have been a just over a seven hour trip to the border could take much longer...time now became their enemy.

Illya's original plan was to arrive near Torfyankovka and hide out until the appointed time. They could not try to cross to Finland as the proper _officials_ and the C.I. not be in place, ones who would assure a quick crossing and prevent them from being captured. Delays meant the Russian side would have more time and opportunity to check them, or be notified of the missing scientist and a rogue KGB agent trying to defect.

They had broken down a half hour outside the small town of Valday, like Vysny Volochyok, it was located on the motorway. But unlike the former town it was a popular tourist destination, situated in the middle of the Valdai Hills national park.

Валда́йская возвы́шенность ...the Valdai Hills, an upland region in north-west of central Russia running north-south, about midway between Lenigrad and Moskva.

It was a place of many lakes, among them the Volgo, Peno, Seliger, Brosno, and Valday and was a popular tourist destination particularly for fishing. Soviet leaders were also attracted to the area as well, and very near to the town on the coast of the lake there was a residence used by many members of the Central Committee when on holiday. The complex of buildings was highly secured and a large sector of the lake area was closed off with the security being high.

But the area was also know for more terrible things, The well-known Nilov Monastery located on Stolbny Island, was the place where the _Special Camp_ of the NKVD was located and where some 6,300 Polish policemen and prisoners of war were kept prior to their execution in Tver. Approximately 4,300 of their comrades, held in Kozielsk were around this time executed in the Smolensk region, and became known as the Katyn massacre.

During the war government of Nazi Germany announced the discovery of mass graves in the Katyn Forest in 1943. When the London-based Polish government-in-exile asked for an investigation by the International Red Cross, Stalin severed diplomatic relations with it. The Soviet Union claimed the victims had been murdered by the Nazis, and continued to deny responsibility for the massacres, though everyone knew it was they who had committed the crime.

The Soviets were guilty of the same sorts of crimes as the Nazis, Stalin's reign having killed what was estimated at 20 million people, but no one knew for sure, the numbers could have been much higher. But there is no argument that both Hitler and Stalin where ruthless and blood letting rulers of nations, where the people of those nations were just too frightened to do anything it.

His last thought, was that Valday had been on the the eastern front for Russia during World War II, the eastern front where so many soldiers and innocents were sent to their death.

He would be glad to get away from all of this, everywhere it went he was surrounded by reminders of death and suffering on an immense scale. And things such as this made him feel almost ashamed to be a Russian.

He wanted to get this mission over with and back to his assignments with his partner, they seemed almost trivial when compared to the scale of evil acts that had taken place here. For a moment his heart ached...he wanted his wife and children.

They walked into Valday, and Illya made enquiries about renting a car, but in spite of the town being geared to tourism, there was no independent transport to be had. He and Vasily stopped in a local tavern in town, just to sit and try and figure the next option an that was stealing a car.

Illya sat as usual with his back to the rear of the room, facing the door, and just as he lifted his cup of tea to his lips he froze. Two men walked in the door and instinctively he knew who they were.

"What is wrong?" Vasily asked.

"Do not turn around, KGB are here. Stay where you are, you will not be recognized." Without warning Illya slipped away from the table, before he was seen and disappeared out the back through the kitchen.

Some of the kitchen staff complained that he was not permitted back there. "Health Inspector," He proclaimed, "go on about your business." He took a quick scan of the kitchen..."Horosho_good, you pass." Then he quickly walked out the back door, into the alley.

Vasily did as he was told and did not look up from his tea cup until a man dressed in black coat walked up to the table, shoving a piece of paper in front of him."Tovarishch, vy videli odnogo iz etikh muzhchin_Komrade, have you seen either of these men?"

Vasily leaned forward, carefully adjusting the the false spectacles on the bridge of her nose. " No Komrade," his voice broke, then he cleared his throat, " I have not seen them. What have they done?"

"None of your business, but if you see them, you will report it to the local authorities immediately." the KGB agent looked at the other untouched tea cup. "Where is your companion?"

"Oh...my wife. We had a little _tiff _and she walked out to get some fresh air. Between you and me I wish she would just keep walking, as she is more trouble than she is worth." He laughed nervously. "Are you married Komrade?"

"Nyet, and from what I hear, I am better off avoiding it," the agent laughed, leaving the photographs on the table. "

"Good luck to you in your search Komrade." Vasily said.

"I vy tozhe tovarishc_ and to you too Komrade." The agent said, leaving the tavern with his companion. It was an immense stroke of luck that there were no other patrons there at the moment, and the person tending the counter had just changed shifts. So there was no one there who had really seen either he or Kuryakin.

Vasily's head drooped, the fear of what just happened having finally been released. He stood up, heading out the way Illya had disappeared, and when he entered the kitchen the staff called out to him.

"Zdorovʹe Inspektor_Health Inspector?"

"Ugh...da."

"Szadi_out back." The said, not even looking up from their work.

Vasily thought that odd, wondering how often spies came trundling through their kitchen. "Spacibo," he thanked them with a shrug of his shoulders.

As soon as he stepped out into the alleyway, Illya appeared from the shadows grabbing him and pulling him out of sight.

"What are you doing?" he hissed.

"I came to find you, they were passing this around. They know," Vasily said handing the flier to him.

Illya looked at it and cursed. No doubt there were people in town who would recognize him, and not Vasily. But they would surely report a dark haired man with a moustache and beard accompanying him.

They waited there until after dark; Illya deciding to proceed with his new plan of stealing a car. It was imperative they got out of town before more KGB agents appeared.

He and Vasily walked in the shadows, keeping their collars turned up as they passed a few people on the street, until they came upon a dark metallic grey Volga. Illya knew it was a 1958 second series model because of the the front end, it had a 16-slit vertical grille, thus earning it the nickname _akula_ shark._ And he knew how to hot wire it.

Vasily stood watch while Illya picked the locks, then wired the car from beneath the dashboard as it was a simple task with this car. In minutes the ignition sparked to life and the engine started. He motioned for Vasily to get in, and under the cover of darkness they vanished into the night.

Illya knew there would be security check points along the road as the KGB had no doubt surmised they were headed toward the Finnish border.

"We are not going to make it, are we?" Vasily whispered. "They are going to find us."

"Not if I can help it."

"Where do we head then?"

"Tosno, it lies on the motorway, and was, mostly destroyed during the war. I has since been rebuilt, and was only just granted town status five years ago, so it has a very small population.

"We are gong to take a chance going into another town?"

"No, we will have to hide on it's outskirts during the day, then limit our travel to after dark."

Three hours later they reached their destination, just before sunup. The town was indeed small and one could blink and miss it, but they could not take a chance entering it. Illya pulled the Volga off the road, parking it amidst a stand of Norway spruce and other pine trees, so that no one could see the car from the motorway; the dark color helped it blend into the deep green background.

He pulled the vial from his pocket, after removing his contact lenses, deciding now that he no longer needed them and tossed it all out the car window with a heave of satisfaction. Then he and Vasily took turns cat napping thoughout the day.

They spoke little, although Vasily tried chatting but Illya ignored him by simply closing his eyes. Once the sun set, they were on their way but this time Illya left the motorway, taking a much longer way around Leningrad, heading northeast towards Lake Ladoga. The first hamlet they came upon forty five minutes later was Otradnoye, not far from the Polish border, then on to the even smaller town of Petrokrepost, situated at the head of the Neva River on Lake Ladoga, 35 kilometers east of Leningrad. The town stood on the mainland opposite the island fortress of Oreshek founded by Peter the Great. And during the war, the town but not the fortress was seized by the Germans. The recapture of Petrokrepost by Soviet forces reopened access to the then besieged Leningrad. Then three hours later they arrived in Priozersk and right into a big problem.

In the distance there was a security checkpoint.

"Chyort." Illya growled, hitting his fist on the steering wheel. He pulled the car off the main road, heading towards the lake, parking it there at the shoreline. He had hope not to use his next option until reaching the border.

Illya pulled out a small vile from his coat pocket, instructing Vasily to lean closer, as he removed the false beard, then put the a different pair of heavy framed glasses on the man's nose. He held up another passport beside Vasily's face, making a quick comparison.

Then he handed it to him, along with his new travel documents.

"You are now Ingmar Mortensen, a Finnish national from Helsinki traveling with me, your companion Viggo Kyllönen, we spent our holiday in Petrokrepost, got it?" He did not wait for and answer, and stepped from the car, going to the shallow edge of the lake. He dunked his head under the water, soaking it completely, then poured a solution from another small vial onto his hair then worked it into a lather, after several minutes of vigorous scrubbing he rinsed again in the water, then slicked his hair back with a comb.

Illya then pulled his Finnish passport from his inner breast pocket, and opened it to a thin light colored false moustache that had been pressed within it. He used the spirit gum to apply it, using the water's surface as his mirror. The last thing he did was slip on his own wire-rimmed reading glasses, letting them slip down his nose, allowing him to see.

He returned to the car; his new look surprising Vasily. Illya's hair was now strawberry blond, and the glasses and moustache made him look less ominous than he had been disguised as Kiril.

This was it then as Illya realized this was the end of Kiril Andorpov. He unclasped the stainless necklace that hung about his neck, flinging it out the window. "Are you wearing a watch?" He asked Vasily.

"Yes, why?"

Illya did not answer as he removed Kiril's _Vostok _watch from his wrist, tossing that too, divesting himself as much as he could from the monster that had been his brother. He swore to forget the man, and to drive all memories of him out of his head. Kiril Andropov would never live on in this world as there would be no one to remember him, that he vowed.

He started up the car, returning to the road and heading towards the checkpoint.

Vasily suddenly spoke up, " I do not speak Finnish."

"I will do all the talking. We will pretend you are deaf and I will act as your interpreter as you read lips and sign language."

"But I cannot do those things?"

Illya clicked his tongue in annoyance. "Fake it Vasily and just follow my lead." He drove the car to the checkpoint, approaching it slowly.

It was a single guard house and seemed to have only one soldier present. He looked fairly young and Illya hoped a bit naive. This was the kind of posting that would be given to someone _green, _some place unimportant and out in the middle of now where.

"Stoĭ_halt," he called out, aiming his Kalishnikov rifle directly at them."Turn off the engine. Papers, give me your papers!"

Illya reached out the window." If you do not mind, I am having trouble with the car and may not be able to get it started again, "he said, handing his pass port and travel documents to him. "And you, papers now." He said to Vasily.

"I apologize, my friend is deaf." Illya then turned to his passenger, moving his hands while he spoke. "Hän tarvitsee paperit Ingmar_ he needs your papers Ingmar."

Vasily handed them to Illya, following his lead.

The soldier took the papers from them, looking everything over. "Ja busniness täällä_ and your business here?" he asked in Finnish.

"Olimme lomalla_we were on holiday and to celebrate Victory Day as we are both Communists" Illya answered," but alas, our time here is over and we must head back to home."

"And where did you spend your holiday?"

"Petrokrepost, fishing in the lake mostly. But we did visit Moscow for the parades." Illya smiled.

"Yes the fishing is excellent in the Spring," he soldier said calmly."And how was the parade in Red Square?"

"Glorious" Illya smiled again.

"It has has been a long time since I have been out of the sticks to Moskva," he sighed then indicated for Illya to step out of the car, ordering him to open the trunk.

There was nothing there to be concerned about and he complied with the request. Then he realized it was a problem. There was _nothing _ in the trunk...no luggage, no fishing tackle, nothing.

As soon as the soldier saw that as well, he went to point his weapon at Illya and just as quickly taking him off guard, Illya grabbed the barrel of the gun and ripped it from his hands, and slamming the soldier under the chin with the rifle butt.

"Chyort voz' mi!" he bellowed, then he yelled for Vasily to get out of the car.

The man's face was pale with fear when he saw the soldier laying on the ground. "Did you kill him?"

"No you _Durak,_ now go into the guard house and see if there is any rope or electrical wire."

Vasily reappeared a few minutes later with several lengths of rope and a pair of handcuffs.

"Good, tie his feet."

Illya pulled the man's hands behind his back, putting cuffs on him, then he used a piece of rope and his handkerchief for a gag, and together he and Vasily carried him into the guard house.

"And now what? Do you not think he is going to be missed!" Vasily's voice was filled with panic. "We are dead men...I never should have done this. You, you are probably letting them catch us on purpose because you wish me dead!"

Illya slapped him across the face. "Stoi! Stop it now and get hold of yourself!" He shoved Vasily back against the car. " I have not come this far just for us to die, now get in the car and close your cowardly mouth!"

The Volga headed down the road into the darkness again, this time Illya had to find a way to cut over back east and he consulted the map, hopefully for the last time.

They drove through the night after he located another motorway until they reached the town of Vyborg just as the sun was beginning to rise. Again they hid in the woods, both hungry and tired, and at least they could quench their thirst in one of the many streams that flowed nearby.

With their limited window to travel, a trip that should have taken them a few hours, was dragged out into days but at the same time it brought them closer to the 11th of May, and the deadline. They passed through Novinka, Chulkevo, Kondrat'evo and then finally Mozhzhevel' nikovo. It was near eleven in the evening on May 10th when they finally reached Torfankovka.

Illya scanned place with his eyes, seeing it had a definite KGB presence on top of the usual military contigent at a border crossing, and no doubt there would be a further build up tomorrow. He reached into his pocket, pulling out the silver homing disc that Bruno Dresner had given him back in East Berlin, and after staring at if for a minute he pressed it, praying there was someone from U.N.C.L.E. on the Finnish side of the border to detect the signal.

He drove the car forward towards border crossing, pulling it up slowly and stopping it in front of the red and white gate. There was a bright yellow sign stop sign with a red hand, ominously posting warnings in multiple languages that this was the border zone.

The Volga was waved up to the next guard, and Illya handed him their paperwork without being asked making it seem he was though he was accustomed to the routines of the crossing. The guard looked at the documents, then at the two of them in the car, then back a the papers. Then he flipped up a sheet of paper attached to the clipboard he was holding.

"Ty budeshʹ zhdatʹ zdesʹ_ you will wait here, " he ordered, then walked to one of the guard houses. Time passed slowly as they remained there, until Illya finally whispered that it was taking too long.

"Something is wrong," he hissed, and that was when he saw the soldier picking up a telephone receiver, and others walking in their direction.

Kurakin's instincts told him they had been identified, and he quickly put the car in gear, ordering Vasily to get down. He slammed his foot on the gas pedal, flooring it as the tires screeched and smoked against the pavement. The car took off, crashing through the gate, sending pieces of it hurtling through the air.

He ducked down behind the wheel as the guards began to open fire with their AK-47s, sending volleys of bullets at the Volga, some of them hitting the trunk. As they closed in on the Finnish side, he could see the bright blue and white border markers coming closer into view.

Then suddenly there was more gunfire, but this time coming from in front of the Volga. The Finnish were firing back as the bullet ridden car tore across their border crossing, smashing through the red and white gate into Finland.

The car eased to a stop, and a man ran to the driver's side. "Jesus Christ Kuryakin, you are certifiable!" It was Hannibal Solo and with him were no less that two dozen U.N.C.L.E. and C.I. A. agents all armed, and they had just ceased fire when the Volga made it safely to them.

Hannibal opened the driver's side door as the other agents saw to Vasily who was still cowering as near to the floor of the car he could get.

"Tovarisch?"

Illya heard the familiar voice and smiled, knowing they had made it and he then slumped forward onto the steering wheel with blood spreading below his left shoulder. The weight of his body leaning against the the car horn sent it's blaring sound out into the night air.


	26. Chapter 26

Illya awoke from his surgery, momentarily disoriented at the strange hospital surroundings, then he focused his attention on the face of a Solo sitting by his bedside, just not the one he was accustomed to seeing when waking up in a hospital bed.

"Hi there," Hannibal said, sounding just like his brother, "Welcome back."

He eyed him warily for a moment, then smiled just a bit."Thank you, it is good to be back, where ever this is?"

"You're in Meilahti Hospital, part of Helsinki University...you were medivaced in by helicopter.

"Helsinki? We...U.N.C.L.E. has an office here. Were they notified?"

"Didn't have to, some of your agents were there waiting with us at the border, seemed you activated some sort of homing devise...very clever, gave us a heads up that you were on your way. And good thing, since we were expecting you a bit later." Hannibal winked.

Illya realized how uncanny it was that Hannibal looked like his brother when he did that. "And Vasily?" Illya asked wearily.

"Is waiting to be processed and sent to Washington. Your people are actually holding him for us. He's one scared s.o.b. I have to tell you that. Somehow you did it, I don't know how, but you did one hell of a job getting him out unscathed. Shame we couldn't say the same for you."

"I will be fine, it is part of the job." Illya said, shrugging it off.

"Yes, that's what the Doctor said, being fine that is. Speaking of which, that Doctor may be someone you know. At least she insisted she knows you, actually she says she's pretty sure she's related to you."

"Not possible, she must have me mixed up with someone else. I have no family other than my wife and children."

"Does the name Anastasiya ring a bell, Anastasiya Ursari?"

Illya's face drained of all it's color, and Hannibal watched as the seemingly cool Russian began to tremble. "Where is she?" he whispered.

"Right outside, waiting for you to wake up. I'll bring her in."

Hannibal disappeared out the door, then a moment later he reappeared with a woman wearing a white lab coat, over a simple grey dress, with a stethoscope dangling around her neck.

Illya stared at her, looking for anything familiar. She was blond with her hair cut quite short, pretty and of medium height. This was not the young girl of his memories but a grown woman and it was not until the moment that he looked into her blue eyes that he knew she was his cousin.

"Illya...Illuysha?" She smiled.

"Tasiya." He could barely whisper her name.

She rushed to his bedside, wrapping her arms around him and the two held each other, both crying and laughing at the same time.

Hannibal made himself scarce leaving the room and letting them have a more private reunion.

Tasiya finally released him, but Illya took hold of her hand, not wanting to let go.

"I cannot believe it. I saw you, you were dead in that pit in Bykivnia," he whispered to her.

"Well obviously it wasn't me." She smiled happily.

"Tasi, what happened?"

"When the Germans came, you remember we all scattered. Papa grabbed me and dragged me into the forest, we hid in a gully beneath the underbrush. We could hear the gunfire everywhere and stayed there for hours and then we heard it again later off in the distance. When it was quiet again, we went back to the camp and found everyone dead, then later we discovered the rest of our people dead in the clearing, including your father."

"Yes, I was there when Papa was shot. He told me to run and I did. We had been told that Dimitry was bayonetted nearby, but I never saw him again. I found my way home through the forest and along the way I saw a pit filled so many bodies and there was a blond girl laying face down among them. I thought it was you." He gasped again, trying to control his emotions. "I made it home to the dacha and Babushka and Katiya," he paused, "they died not long after."

"We, Papa and I buried everyone we could find. We could not find you, Dima or a few of the others and hoped you were all alive. We went to the dacha but found it burned down." Tears were streaming down her cheeks again" Illya we found Katiya and buried her. I assumed you were dead too, though Papa kept saying no. Oh Illya, I'm sorry we did not find you.

"How could you? I went to Kyiv and I hid there in the ruins of the city," he said. "Eventually the Germans caught me as well as many other street orphans and took us to work in the camp near Babi Yar."

"Oh God you were in Syrets? We heard about that terrible place."

He nodded quietly, not wanting to say more than that, other than telling her he eventually escaped and was rescued when the Red Army retook the city.

"I was sent to a refugee camp and then to an orphanage in Moskva where I grew up courtesy of the State. I served in the Navy, joined Military Intelligence and then I was sent to work for a multinational peace keeping organization and so much of that dear cousin, is also a long story for another time."

Tasiya ran her fingers gently though his hair. "Oh Illuysha, if we could have only found you, if we only knew?"

"Anastasiya, many were lost and separated from their families and were never reunited, I was not alone in that respect. Now tell me how you came to be in Finland, what happened to you and Vanya?" Illya suddenly came to the realization. "_Vanya_?"

"He is alive, for now. He is old Illya and in a nursing home, and sadly my father is dying...he has the cancer."

Illya closed his eyes for a moment. He couldn't believe this was happening, and his head began to swim. Vanya was alive but for how long?"

Anastasiya saw the sadness in his eyes when he opened them and gave his hand a squeeze.

"Papa and I made our way north, we crossed into Finland though we heard there were Jews who had been turned over to the Nazis, so knew we Rom were not safe either. Papa and I both spoke Finnish and because I was somewhat fair, I was able to pass. Papa's hair turned white after the attack on the camp, so that helped him to pass as well. For a time, we escaped the war, going to Sweden."

"Once the war was over and peace returned, the rebuilding began and I was accepted to attend University. After all the pain and death I had seen, it was my wish to do good, so I studied to become a Doctor...a surgeon to be precise." She smiled at him."It was I who removed the bullet from your shoulder. Illya when I saw your face, I knew it was so familiar, but the hair it was different."

He laughed. "Oh I am still blond, it is this shade from the remnants of hair color...long story."

She looked at him when your people came, and Hannibal, I was told your name...I couldn't believe it was you. This is truly a gift from God, a miracle."

"Yes it is my cousin, and just one of many that I have been blessed with. I am married to a wonderful woman named Elliott and we have two beautiful children, Demya and Lourdes Mary.

"That is such wonderful news, Illya. To think I have gone from having only Papa, to finding my _brother..._and who has children. Our family has come to life again!" She smiled then laughed joyfully.

Anastasiya composed herself. "Now since I am your physician, I need to do a post-operative check, " she smiled as she examined his wound, finding everything satisfactory and after listening to his heart and checking his pupillary reaction, she pronounced with a laugh that he would live.

But Illya watched her and noted a look of concern in her eyes.

"You have so many scars Illya, your life must have been very hard."

"The majority of my scars were actually gained because of my line of work, I am a field operative for that...peace keeping organization It is not the United Nations and is called, U.N.C.L.E. which stands for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. I am an enforcement agent." He smiled shyly, but feeling no need to be secretive with her.

"An agent...so you are some sort of spy."

"Yes, sort of," he smiled. "So my cousin, how soon can I leave here...I wish to see your father."

"In a few days, then I will take you to him." She leaned forward, kissing him on the cheek." I love you Illya Nickovich, I have never stopped loving my and thinking of you." She wiped her eyes with a tissue. "Now it's time for you to rest. Close your eyes and dream happy thoughts, you are safe here."

Illya did just that after she left him, closing his eyes with a smile knowing that his dreams would surely be happy ones. Then he stopped himself, realizing that he needed to call home and reached to the the bed table, grabbing the telephone receiver.

Elliott was relieved of her worries the moment she heard Illya's voice on the telephone, even though she had been told by Waverly that he was alive and had succeeded in his mission. When she heard of the miracle of he and his cousin being reunited, she said an extra prayer of thanks. Illya had been given back some of his family that he'd thought he'd lost. She could hear the absolute joy as he spoke.

Anastasiya sat at his bedside, as he spoke his wife, and listened in delight as he smiled as he babbled to his son and daughter.

They spent the next few days, catching up with their lives. Tasiya was delighted that her cousin had found love and had children of his own. She though, had been so devoted to her career as a surgeon that she gave herself no time for love. What spare time she had was devoted to caring for her father.

Hannibal Solo returned later that afternoon to check on Illya, and was seated in a chair at his bedside when the Russian's eyes opened.

"Napoleon?" he asked groggily. As usual he had refused pain pills and sleep aids but he was so physically exhausted from the ordeal of this mission and being shot, that he was sleeping like a hibernating Russian bear. His body was not quite bouncing back the way he used to.

"Not quite, but close." Hannibal smiled.

"You are still here? I would have thought you were winging your way back to Langley with your prize."

"Nope, not my job. I'm posted here for a few more weeks and don't get to go home...home is a relative word anyway when it comes to me." Hannibal said. "You know sometimes I envy my brother and you. You manage jobs in this sick world of ours and still have homes and a family. You'll have to tell me your secret someday? he sighed. "By the way, Bill Klein is here to escort Krantrishvasili back himself. He wants to handle it personally."

"Really? This is most opportune as I have some things to tell him about his newest acquisition. Can you get me out of here?" Illya said as the threw the bed covers back.

After exerting a bit of Solo-esque flirtation with the duty nurse, Hannibal arrived with a grey sweat suit, sneakers and a wheel chair; having given promises that the patient would be back shortly...that along with the promise of a night out for dinner at a very exclusive restaurant.

Illya smiled wryly; it seemed Solos of a feather flocked together as he watched Hannibal charm the woman so easily, just like his brother.

He took Illya down to a waiting car and headed for U.N.C.L.E. headquarters located just a few blocks away, behind a small heath spa.

When they arrived, an agent escorted Illya and Hannibal to the back, stepping into a sauna signed _Epäkunnossa__out of order. They stepped inside, and the agent turned a wooden clothing peg and the wall silently opened and they stepped into another world, one of neutral grey corridors and agents moving about on their business.

They received their badges at the security desk, and were taken down to interrogation were Vasily was being held.

Bill Klein had just arrived and was surprised to see Kuryakin.

"My God man you look like hell," he blurted out, seeing how pale the Russian was, and that paleness augmented the redness that was still evident in Illya's eyes.

"Thank you, so kind of you to notice." Illya quipped.

"No, thank _you._ You did one hell of a job out there. How's the shoulder?" he asked, noticing he was cradling his left arm.

"Fine, I am sure I will recover well enough."

"So I hear you got some good news...found a long lost cousin?"

"It was more like she found me, and yes a very unexpected side benefit of having accepted this mission."Illya deflected speaking about that personal situation, to one that was concerning an even more private part of his life." But there is something important that I need to speak about to you regarding another unexpected surprise, it is about Vasily Krantrishvasili."

They went in silence to a small conference room next door, Illya and Klein sitting together at utilitarian table inside.

"Okay, so what about him? He isn't dying of something like that is he?"Klein asked.

"Your defector is a war criminal."

Bill Klein took that statement calmly. "And how do you know that my friend?"

Illya lowered his head, hesitating. Though he had unburdened himself of his past to his wife and partner, he had spoken of it to no one else and he was surprised that he was finding this still difficult to speak of.

"He was complicit in the torture and murder murder of prisoners in the Sryets concentration camp in the Ukraine during the war."

"And how exactly do you know this?

Illya pulled up the sleeve to his sweatshirt, revealing the muddy blue tattoo on his forearm. "Because I was there...I was a prisoner in that camp."

Klein wiped his hand across his mouth. "Well I'll be God-damned...that's _definitely_ not in your records."

Illya looked at him painfully. "There are some secrets kept better than others. Vasily was a functionary within the camp, overseeing the children's barracks. He helped in their starvation... stealing food from them...us. He facilitated in the rape and sodomy of the children as he secretly pimped us out to some of the Nazis who had a _preference _for sex with children. He participated in the beating, torture and murder of countless adult prisoners and acted as a spy for a Czech named Rein, who was Radomski's...the camp commandant's interpreter. It was Vasily who took my friend Irina to the camp medic, one Karl Voelker. She was impregnated by him and subsequently sent to her death in the gas vans because of her pregnancy. Illya left out his own attempted abuse at the hands of the Nazi

"Voelker...Karl Voelker? I know that name." Klein said. " He was that Stasi bastard who tortured you... Illya I am so sorry, I had no idea. Good God, that makes what happened to you in East Berlin even worse." Klein was visibly disturbed by this revelation. "No wonder you were never going to let me live that down."

"I suppose so," Illya said quietly.

"You know this is some serious deep shit. And you had the balls to still to complete your assignment and help this bastard defect in spite of who he was and what he did."

Illya's only response was merely a shrug. "I had an obligation to keep. It was not my place to be judge, jury and executioner, though there were a few times that I was sorely tempted. He is in your hands now, for better or for worse. Once your government is informed of his crimes, I can only hope he will be dealt with appropriately when the time comes."

"Well for all the good it will do, I will report this to the powers that be. What happens to him will all depend upon how useful he's going to be, I'm sorry but you know that's the way it it. If he's a valuable asset, then he'll be protected, and if he's not, then you can rest assured that he'll be prosecuted for his crimes...that is if you're willing to testify against him.

Illya nodded, though he felt reluctant at the thought of publicly baring his hidden past.

"Thank you...Bill. I appreciate your candor. Illya wrote out a sworn statement for Klein to take with him; repeating what he had told him and adding a few more verifiable details for good measure, and he found doing so again quite freeing.

"I have one request of you before you return with him to Washington...I would like to speak to Vasily."

"Absolutely," Klein said.

They went to the next room where Vasily was confined, and Illya was let in. Klein and an U.N.C.L.E. agent watched though a two-way mirror in the adjoining observation room.

"Illya!" said Vasily, rising from his chair. Thank goodness you are alright. When you were shot, I thought you were dead, and no one would tell me otherwise.

Kuryakin waved his right hand in a sharp gesture, dismissing his words.

"I wish to thank you for saving me...for getting me out the Soviet Union, as I surely would have died there. I know how you feel about me, but that was the past. I will be working to do good with my knowledge, that is why I am defecting."

"No Vasily, you defected to protect your miserable life and nothing more, just as you did in the camp. A leopard cannot change it's spots." Illya answered in a very low voice. Then he leaned in closely. " I have informed the C.I.A. of who you really are and of the crimes you are guilty of. What becomes of you will be in the hands of the United States government...for now." Illya then leaned even closer to him, whispering in his ear. " I warn you now Vasily, I will be waiting and watching you. When the day comes that the Americans no longer find you useful, they may convict you of your crimes, or not. But I will not wait for that day, for it will be by my own hands that you will die...this I vow."

Illya stood, turning his back to the now horrified man and rapped on the door to be let out.

Klein didn't ask what he whispered to the man, but by the look on Vasily's face he knew it was pretty bad.

As promised,Illya was taken back to the hospital by Hannibal, though he was looking a little greyer and fatigued and as he was wheeled back into his room. Anastasiya was there waiting for him, her arms crossed in front of her. She was tapping her foot on the floor and looking quite angry.

Illya didn't give her a chance to chastise him and spoke first. "I am sorry, I know what I did was wrong but there was something very important I had to do before it was too late. I promise I will behave and be a model patient."

Tasiya sighed as his words had knocked the steam out of her ire.

"Illuyshenka, I just got you back, I do not want to lose you again?"

"I promise you moya sestra, you will not lose this time."

She and Hannibal helped him back into his bed. She checked his bandages, then removed only his sneakers as he was tucked under his blankets. Tasiya kissed him on the cheek. "Now go to sleep."

She stood for a few minutes watching him, until she was sure he was settled, then she turned to Hannibal. "You!" she whispered to him, "_outsid_e now."

Once in the hallway she gave him a piece of her mind.

"You know you're really cute when you're angry." He smiled at her charmingly, and completely disarmed her.

"What?" she blurted out, distracted by his remark.

"I said you're cute when you are angry. Your nose crinkles up in the most delightful way."

Anastasiya touched her nose reflexively. "Really? No one has ever told me that before?" In reality, she realized no one had ever complimented her before in such a way." Thank you, that was nice of you to say...I think?"

"I find that hard to believe that someone as pretty as you not being paid attention to you? Now that's shame." Say would you like to take a break and join me for some coffee...maybe a bite to eat? We can talk a bit about your cousin. He happens to be my brother's working partner and his best friend."

Anastasiya ran her fingers through her hair, trying to smooth it. "Yes, "she smiled shyly," I would like that very much."

.

Two days later, Illya was feeling better and was more like his usual cranky self. He insisted upon visiting his Uncle Vanya as he had a sense of urgency that was beginning to creep under his skin, it was a feeling of concern that the man might pass away before he could see him again. He feared it was one of those premonitions that had visited him all of his life.

Tasiya had told him that Vanya was suffering from an incurable form of cancer and was residing at a special hospital unit called a hospice, where those who were dying were taken care of and helped to pass in comfort and with dignity.

She took Illya to see Vanya, but first she went into her fathers room as she needed to tell him the wonderful news. She was afraid the shock to his system might cause him harm, and asked her cousin to wait outside the door.

Ivan Ursari lay in his hospital bed, he was frail and thin but looked up with joy in his tired eyes as he saw his daughter.

"Papa," she smiled as she stood at his bedside." I have a wonderful surprise for you...no a miraculous surprise. Someone we thought lost, has been found... it is Illya...our Illya is alive."

"Illuysha? "Vanya whispered. "My little partisan...I told you he was alive. I never believed he was dead. I felt it."

"Yes Papa, you did. You were right, and I am sorry I did not believe you. Papa, he is here to see you."

Vanya smiled weakly, but his eyes were dancing with happiness.

Tasiya turned to the door, waving to Illya to come in as he stood there, barely peeking inside the room.

He sat on the side of the bed beside his Uncle, then leaned down and kissed him on the cheek, managing only to whisper his name.

Illya looked at the man he remembered as, strong and muscular...a bear as was the meaning of his name. Gone was his full dark hair, and he was very frail, but his eyes were the same, sparkling with the magic that he remembered as a child.

"Oh my Illuysha...I knew it. I felt you were alive, though I thought I would never live to see you again boy."

"Vanya, I fought to survive and I have grown into the man you said I would be. I strive to do good things in the world." Illya stroked his hand against his Uncle's cheek. " I was so lonely...I missed you, all of you. I thought you were dead."

"Ah but you are still my brave Illya Muromets." Vanya smiled." I can die a happy man now. " He reached over taking his daughter's hand and placing it into Illyas. "God has truly blessed me, now seeing my two beautiful ones together again at last. A dying man could not hope for a better wish to come true,...having his family safe and with him when his time nears. Anistasiya, though I will not live to see my grandchildren, promise me you will have them. You must live your own life now, as you will not have me to take care of any longer. I want you both to live long and joyful lives.

"No, Papa..." Tasiya protested.

"Illya, tell me do you have children?"

"Yes Vanya, a son and daughter."

"Good, then the family still lives. Our Rom blood line has not been lost.

He coughed violently." Illuysha I go to see your Mama and Papa...our family. I will tell them what good and wonderful people you and my daughter have grown into. He coughed again, then nodded his head as he closed his eyes. His breathing became labored and twenty minutes later Ivan Alexaevich Ursari died peacefully with his daughter and nephew at his side.

Illya held his cousin in his arms as she wept, yet he shed no tears of mourning as he had already done that long ago. He was simply thankful that he was permitted to see Vanya alive one last time. Though his heart ached for his cousin who was now an orphan just as he.

"Anastasiya Ivanova," he wispered," my wife always has said _when God closes one door, He opens another one._ Vanya is gone, but God has given us each other."

"Yes He has Illuysha...He has," she smiled weakly.

Illya remained with her while she signed the necessary paperwork; after shedding her initial tears she was now calm as he had prepared herself for the day it was to happen. Yet Illya felt his presence helped to ease her pain.

He had a flight scheduled to leave for New York in two days, but then contacted headquarters requesting to delay his return in order to attend his Uncle's funeral.

"You have my deepest condolences Mr. Kuryakin, this was both an unexpected boon, and a sadness to deal with."Alexander Waverly said," Take as much time as you need, although your wife and children might not be too happy with an extended absence. Out."

Illya then contacted Elliott, telling her of the circumstances and they both decided it was best the children not be told when he was to return. Elliott said they were getting anxious enough as it was waiting for his homecoming.

"My love, I am so happy ye've found yer cousin, but now it's so terrible to to lose yer Uncle this way, for a second time. Please tell Anastasiya how sorry I am for her loss."

"I will...Annushka, I love you and cannot wait to be with you again, and our children. I miss you terribly."

"We miss ye too. Come home to us as soon as ye can. I love ye. Out." There was nothing but static on the communicator.

They left the hospice a short while later, Anastasiya taking Illya to her apartment. She wanted to spend as much time as possible with her cousin knowing once the funeral was over, he would have to return to New York.

Before heading home they visited an open air market, purchasing food for their dinner, as Tasiya said she was not prepared for company. Then Illya spotted a small Russian store and popped inside. He exited a few moments later carrying a paper sack.

"What did you find?" she asked.

"Just some things for my wife and children." He said, dismissing it as somewhat trivial.

They took a tram to her apartment building, so typical of Nordic architecture with _Esprit Nouveau_ and a modernist influences.

Minutes later they entered her home and Tasi emptied her shopping bag on the _Pietra de Cardosa-_ Italian grey stone kitchen counter top. The interior of her home was modernistic and sparely furnished.

She then opened a bottle of red wine and poured him a glass, ordering him to relax.

"I am still your doctor may I remind you. Now make yourself comfortable, the bathroom is down that hall, " she pointed. "Wander around if you like, think of this as your home too."

Illya smiled, giving her no argument what so ever, and took a little tour of her home., looking at the decor, paintings and the library. Her home was was much larger and open than most apartments he was accustomed to, but this was typical of Finnish architecture, with it's sleek style and open spaces.

There were wonderful black and white photographs on the wall of the Finnish landscape, and a few obviously taken with a telephoto lens that he recognized as far off images that were surely of Russia.

"Come Illuysha, dinner is ready," she called out to him a short time later.

He returned to the dining room, finding the table covered with a beautiful cloth stitched in Russian embroidery. She had a pair dark green tapers set in silver candlesticks on the table, sitting in a centerpiece of pine branches.

"Smells wonderful," he smiled as he seated himself.

"You still have the appetite of a wolf?"

"Be forewarned, yes I do, " he laughed.

"Good, because I made extra portions just in case," she countered.

Tasiya served traditional Finnish food, _lihapullat-_venison meatballs served Swedish style with _perunamuusi_ -mashed potatoes, -jam and pickled gherkins, _darkruisleipä_ rye bread with fresh butter, _leipäjuusto_ cheese, with cloudberry jam and for desert, r_önttönen_ pastry with lingonberry filling and nice strong coffee. then as an aperitf, cloudberry liqueur.

They chatted together as they ate, forgetting their sadness at the passing of Vanya Ursari, and just enjoyed catching up with each other's lives.

Tasiya could see the delight in her cousins eyes when he spoke of his family, especially when he mentioned his little Lala.

"Demya is wise beyond his years and his sister is such a fiery red head like her mother and has the most infectious laugh." He gleamed as he described them.

They drank, talked and laughed late into the night, then finally Tasiya saw that Illya was fighting off sleep.

"I have been remiss as your physician Illya and have kept you up too late. Now off to bed with you my dear cousin."

He protested, but knew she was right that and the fact the strong wine they had been drinking had gotten him just a little drunk, but then he was possibly drunk with just a little bit of happiness that his beloved cousin was alive.

She lead him upstairs to her guest room, but then he suddenly asked to see Vanya's room and lead him down to it. When they walked inside he suddenly asked her if she would mind if he slept there.

She understood why, and would never deny him.

"Of course," she said, going to a dresser and pulling out a package containing a new pair of pajamas. "I bought them for Papa. I was going to bring to him..."

He gladly accepted them from her, then they kissed each other good night. Illya changed, hanging up his clothes and then slipped into his Uncle's bed, somehow it made him feel closer to Vanya.

He lay there looking around the sparingly furnished room. There was an icon on the wall...the Madonna and child, and on the night stand beside the bed was a worn prayer book written in Cyrillic. He picked it up, thumbing through it and that was when he found it, gasping as he saw an old yellowed photograph of his family...they were all there, standing stiff and awkward in the style of posing for a lithograph. Babushka, Papa, Mama who was obviously pregnant with the twins, Dimitry, himself and Katiya.

Illya ran his fingers across the images in complete awe. This was another miracle for him, seeing their faces. Until this moment, he had nothing but faded memories to hold onto, and his Grandfather's coin. This time his eyes filled with tears as he held the photograph to his chest, and thanked God for this new gift.

He stared at it for the longest time, then set the photo up against the lamp, imagining they were watching over him as he fell asleep.

At three in the morning there was a knock on the door, waking him instantly.

"Illya? May I come in please?" Tasiya called softly

"Come," he answered. "What is wrong?"

"Illya this is going to sound strange...but may I lay down with you, like we did when we were children?"

He smiled as he remembered when the two of them would snuggle together by the fire in the camp in Bykivnia while Vanya told his stories, they would fall asleep together, safe under the night sky.

He thought nothing of it as he lifted his blanket, and his cousin slipped in beside him, then wrapped his arm around her.

"HeBetter my sister?"

"Spacibo moy brat, " she whispered.

"Sleep well," he answered her softly. He lay there looking at her as she closed her eyes and snuggled next to him. Yet this moment was bittersweet, as they would be parted again soon when he returned to New York.


	27. Chapter 27

It was six in the morning when Illya awoke and carefully slipped out of the bed as to not disturb his cousin. He looked down at Tasiya as she slept peacefully, looking very much now as he remembered her as a young girl.

He padded barefoot down the hall to the bathroom where he showered then dressed himself, and after finding a straight razor that must have been Vanya's, he shaved. Staring at the still tired image in the mirror, he reminded himself it was all over. "I am Illya Kuryakin," he said, touching his hand to his face. His eyes were still a bit bloodshot and the hair was still not his normal blond, but what he saw was close enough to make him forget the face of Kiril Andropov for good.

When he returned to the bedroom Anastasiya was gone, but then he smelled coffee brewing and knew she was in the kitchen. She was just pouring the second cup when he appeared.

"I knew this would summon you," she laughed softly.

He remembered that laugh, as it had not changed. "Good morning, did you sleep well?"

She smiled, placing a mug in front of him. "Yes, thank you cousin. I had a wonderful dream...we were children again lying by the fire and Papa was talking to us, telling one of his stories."

Illya looked perplexed for a moment, then confided in her. " I had such a dream too."

"So you suppose it was Vanya reaching out to us?"

"With your father, I think anything is possible, and remember we both have a bit of the gift as did he," he reminded her.

They ate a typical Finnish breakfast of open sandwiches, buttered and with hard cheese. Then for Tasiya, viili yogurt in a bowl with a bit of jam. For Illya, puuro, a porridge made of rolled oats, with a pat of voisilmä_butter eye with milk and raspberry jam as well. Then they spent the rest of the day deep in conversation, telling each other of their lives.

Tasiya disappeared for a bit to make preparations for her father's burial, while Illya spent some time catching up on his sleep, as per orders given by his physician and this was one doctor he would not give a hard time. Later they ate lunch and then dinner together, talking into the night. Then they finally they retreated to their beds, not looking forward to the next day.

The next morning they the prepared themselves and then attended the small service for Vanya Ursari.

Anastasiya did not observe the Russian tradition of waiting three days before the burial, and kept to only a few of the superstitious customs from the past. She saw to it that her father was dressed in traditional Russian clothing, white in color to symbolize purity of his life that was a promise to live as such when he had been baptized so long ago.

Around his waist, he wore a brightly embroidered belt, symbolizing a person's commitment to Christianity. Tradition dictated that wearing it proved that he was a member of society and it protected him from dark forces and would need it when he was resurrected during the Last Judgment.

At the funeral an Orthodox priest performed the seeing off ceremony of praying over the body, while Anastasiya and Illya were the only mourners in attendance.

At the grave site, the priest placed a paper crown on the head of Ivan Ursari and then the coffin was sealed. Following Romany custom, Anastasiya had placed a few things within he might need after in the after life, money, food, favorite belongings, that were of importance Vanya; his prayer book, the Madonna Icon, his pipe and tobacco, along with his wooden Sopilka, a Ukrainian flute that Vanya had ceased to play long ago, but his daughter hoped he would use in again in heaven.

She and Illya tossed handfuls of soil and coins into the grave as the casket was lowered into the ground. The dirt symbolized the return of Vanya's body into the earth, the coins were to pay for his transit to the other world.

The two of them stood at the graveside holding candles to guide the soul of Ivan Ursari to the afterlife and to mourn his leaving them, as well as his soul leaving the body.

There were many rituals that were proscribed following the death of a loved one, but Tasiya no longer kept up with most of the old ways, having been brought up in Finnish society, but still there were things Russian that her father told her never to forget.

After the priest finished the prayers Anastasiya followed the tradition of singing a dirge in her native language to mourn her father's passing.

"This is for your family too," she whispered as she took her cousin's hand, " sing with me Illya." Though their upbringings had left them not knowing any words to such things songs, they found common ground and together they sang their lament using the words of Alexander Pushkin, as they were familiar to both of them. Their voices droned in unison carried away in the wind, as they sang in the style of a Gregorian chant.

"Sushchestvuet ni v kakoe sravnenie spamyatnikom ya vozveli,

I etot dukh kolonki vidavshiĭ putilyudyeĭ, -

Yego golova vyzyvayushchim budet iz - paritʹ , chto znamenityĭ stolb

Imperator Aleksandr imyeet...

None compare to the monument I have erected,

And to this spirit column well-worn the people's path,-

Its head defiant will out-soar that famous pillar

The Emperor Alexander hath..."

.

"I shall not vanish wholly,-No! but young forever

My spirit will live on, within my lyre will ring,

And men within this world shall hold me in remembrance

While yet one Singer lives to sing."

.

"My glory shall in future fly through distant Russia,

Each race in its own tongue shall name me far and wide,

The Slav, the Finn, the Kalmyk, all shall know me-

The Tungoose in his reindeer hide."

.

"Among my people I shall be long loved and cherished,

Because their noblest instincts I have e'er inflamed,

In evil hours I lit their hearts with fires of freedom,

And never for their pleasures blamed".

.

"O Muse, pursue the calling of thy Gods forever!

Strive not for the garland, nor look upon the pain-

Unmoved support the voice of scorn or of laudation,

And argument with Fools disdain!" *

.

A soft breeze blew, suddenly extinguishing their candles. There were signs of spring finally awakening as they heard the chirping sound of a nearby bird. Illya realizing ironically that is was the song of a Thrush Nightingale echoing from the trees.

Two people who thought the other was lost forever walked out of the cemetery hand in hand, not saying another word. Both saddened at the loss of Vanya, but also because they knew they would soon be parted again. Their time together had been all too brief, but they knew that life had to continue.

Anastasiya drove him to the airport, but both found it difficult to find the right words when it came time for Illya to leave.

"Not good bye my cousin, it is only miles that separate us and not death as we once thought," he said, trying hide his melancholia.

She wiped her tears, promising to visit him as soon as she could and it was then that he reached out, holding her face in his hand, looking into her eyes that were as blue as his. He kissed her on the cheek then turned, walking up the ramp to board the plane and out of her life for now.

He was dressed in a suit that headquarters had supplied him with; his left arm in a sling and the only thing he carried was the paper sack with gifts for Elliott and the children, and the photograph of his family that Anastasiaya had given him, and that was tucked safely in his breast pocket.

Illya's Finnair flight arrived late at Kennedy Airport, and after hitting traffic delays his taxi finally arrived in front of the familiar brownstone across from Washington Square Park in the Village.

A video debrief with Alexander Waverly from the Helsinki office was sufficient enough for him not to report to headquarters immediately, and the Old Man was not unsympathetic, knowing that a very anxious family needed to be reunited. He gave his agent a few days off just for that reason.

The weary Russian climbed the familiar steps to his home, feeling as though it had been ages since he'd walked on them. It was late and the light was on in the vestibule; he let himself carefully inside as his arm was still in the sling. Then after resetting the alarm system, he made his way upstairs to his wife and children.

He'd spoken to them many times from Helsinki, though Elliott was not expecting him until the morning, but after catching an earlier flight, he decided to surprise them all.

With his shoes in hand, he walked up the stairs in the dark, first going to his son's room, checking on him, tucking him in and kissing him on the head, then he went to his Lourdes. She was curled up in her crib, and he was astounded how much she had grown. He leaned down, kissing her as well, but she let out a little moan.

"Shush, moy angel, Papa is home." He said rubbing her lightly on her back until she settled, then he went to his wife.

"Annushka, moya lyubimaya." he whispered in the darkness, knowing that she was most likely awake as soon as he had stepped into the house."

"Ah ye sneaky Russian," she whispered, tucking her special beneath the pillow. "I should have known ye were up to something when ye said not ta meet ye at the airport."

He leaned over on his good arm, supporting himself as he gave her a long, passionate kiss, then Elliott helped him undress as he sat there on the edge of the bed, peeling away his clothes and gently caressing and kissing his body. She slipped from her night clothes and then spread her legs, slipping on top of him as he remained where he was.

Together they made love to each other, moving slowly and tenderly. Elliott taking the lead, staying there on top of him, knowing his injury made it difficult for him to move. Illya held her by the waist keeping her steady, basking in the warmth of her soft skin and the warmth within her as they moved in slowly unison. The minutes passed, and then she let out a small squeak of delight as she climaxed, and it was then that he released himself with a soft moan.

"Unnngh, mmmm...daaa." Then he smiled and laughed softly as he drew his Elliott to him and buried his face between her breasts...holding her for a few minutes, not wishing to let her go.

"I was worried ye wouldn't make it home this time," she whispered to him as she stroked his hair with her hand.

"I was too, but as the mission unfolded, I knew I would make it. God was not ready for me yet.

"Ye missed a fine wake," she laughed softly as she pulled away from him. "Napoleon delivered a mighty eulogy."

"Oh I am sure he did, but since I am alive and well, I would rather concentrate on you at the moment rather than my supposed demise."

They crawled under the covers, wrapping themselves in each others embrace. Nothing more was said and they simply fell asleep, safe in each other's arms.

The next morning they made love again, then after relaxing in bed together Elliott got up, dressed herself and tossed a pair of sweat pants and a tee shirt to her husband. "Make yerself decent, I'm going to wake the children."

Illya dressed quickly and a few minutes later Demya came dashing into the bedroom, bounding onto the bed and into his fathers arms.

"Whoa, easy Demyachka, Papa has a sore shoulder so be very careful please?"He laughed in spite of his discomfort of having a squirming child, his child in his arms.

"Papa I missed you so much...your hair looks funny? I kept having dreams that you were being chased and you were afraid. Papa, there were pretty churches in my dreams, did you go to church while you were in Russia?"

He hugged the boy to him, realizing the truth within his son's dreams.

"I missed you too. I swear you have grown so much! And as you can see I am here, so there was no one chasing me and yes I was in church while I was away." Then he ran his hand through his hair, looking at his wife.

"Don't worry we'll have it back to blond by tonight," she smiled.

"See that bag on the nightstand, hand it to me please?" Illya asked his son.

Demya grabbed the paper sack handing it to his father. "What's in there Papa?"

"A present for you." Illya smiled reaching into the bag, he pulled out a snow globe and shook it making the tiny snowflakes swirl around the colorful image of a church within it. "See how it's snowing inside, that is St. Basil's cathedral in Moskva...someday I hope to take you there to see it. I think perhaps it is the most beautiful church ever built."

Demya continued shaking the globe, smiling in delight as the snow moved round the domed spires of cathedral. "Papa, this is one of the churches I saw!"

"Are you sure you did not see it in the book we looked at Demmy?" his mother asked.

"No Mama, I dreamed it. I'm sure."

Elliott just cocked her head, hearing that from him then went to get her daughter, then after having changed Lourdes' diaper, stood in the doorway holding her and as soon as the child spotted her father she let out a high-pitched squeal of delight.

She put Lala down, holding her hands and steadying her for a moment as she took her first tentative steps towards her father.

Illya grinned as he knelt down on the floor holding his hands out to his little girl, encouraging her to walk to him.'

"Come to Papa my sweet?"

Lourdes giggled as she moved like a drunken sailor towards her father and he caught her just as she lost her balance and was about to fall.

Illya scooped her up, feeling sheer joy and kissed her as he sat back on the bed, then he carefully grabbed his son and pulled him into his lap along with his sister. He looked up at Elliott, his eyes beaming with pride in them and happy to be home again.

"Demya, reach into the bag and get your sister's present out...and your Mama's as well?"

The boy reached into the bag, withdrawing a small black lacquered brooch, hand painted with soft colorful flowers. "Give that to Mama please?"

Demmy jumped off the bed, handing the pin to his mother with a smile.

"Look what Papa brought you Mama, pretty. It's from Russia."

Elliott held the brooch up to her robe, admiring the classic syle of the Slavic artwork. "Thank you Illuysha, with all ye've been through and you remember to do this...it's beautiful. Spacibo my love!"

Demya crawled back onto the bed, then pulling his sister's gift from the bag.

"Hey I know what this is. It's a Matroyshka doll, there's smaller ones inside it!"

Illya looked at Elliott. "And where did you learn this Demyachka?"

"Mama showed me some books about Russia and the Ukraine, there were pictures of them in there...I have a present for you too Papa," he said with excitement. "It's in the kitchen, on the refrigerator door."

Illya showed Lourdes her gift, opening the first doll for her and then when she got her hands on it, she went right to the task of pulling them apart, and laughed out loud as each new doll appeared.

He could see Elliott was concerned and knew exactly what she was thinking.

"Do not worry, there are none small enough that she could choke on, I made sure of it."

"Here, I have some things for ye too." Elliott draped his St. Andrew medal around his neck, then slipped his marriage band back on his finger. He was happy to have them back, and pleased that Klein had taken care of them for him.

They all went downstairs to the kitchen where Illya saw the maps that Demya had drawn for him. He reached out touching both of them, then bowed his head.

"Illya are ye alright?" Elliott asked him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

"I am now."

"It was hard wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was hard but not the way you think. It was not the physical journey but the emotional one that was difficult for me. I knew I would face many old memories when I returned, though I thought I was prepared. I ended up traveling to Kyiv as I had feared, but being there gave me an unexpected opportunity to deal with what thougts and emotions that again haunted me."

"I never had truly said good bye to my family, once I had left Kyiv as a child, I did not return. When I returned this time, I realized it was not the same, most of the things that said home to me were gone. Thomas Wolfe said it best...You can not go home again, and I discovered there is much truth to that."

"I wandered to all the places where they died, and there I said my farewells. I told them about you and the children and told them they could now rest. There are things that I would want for you and the children to see there some day, but only because they are places that exist from my past. I cannot say I want you to see my home, because home is already here with you, Demyachka and Lala."

Demya appeared in the kitchen, still clutching his snow globe.

"Do you like your present Papa?"

"Yes Demyachka, they are well done. Papa was there you know, in both Ukraine and Russia. I have something to show you...wait here.

Illya went upstairs, retrieving some very precious things from his coat pocket.

When he returned, he sat with his wife and children at the kitchen table and it was there he showed them the family photo...pointing out each one of them and saying their names.

Demya was mesmerized, having only heard about these people.

"I look like you Papa." he smiled.

"Yes you do, very much...here," he said as he opened his hand. " I have something else for you." He held out the ruble coin to his son.

"Is it a silver dollar?"

"No it is a very old coin called a ruble. See, that is the portrait of the old Tsar Nicholas who was once the ruler of Russia. This is a very important token belonging to our family. It once belonged to your great grandfather, and he called it his lucky coin. And it is lucky as it lay hidden after all these years waiting for me to find it. It holds all the memories of my family and now I give it to you my son, and someday you will add your memories to it. It is very special, so take good care of it."

Demya's eyes glistened as his father handed it to him. "I will Papa, I promise." The boy reached out, touching his father's photograph with reverence. " Papa, tell me the memories that it holds?"

Illya smiled, hugging his son to him." Oh there are many stories Demyachka, perhaps we will start with ones about the man who owed this coin, your great grandfather, Alexander Sergeivich Kuryakin, he was a Count in the court of Tsar Nicolas and a good and generous man..."

After a brief respite with his family and once the excitement of Illya Kuryakin being alive had died down at headquarters, he settled into his assignment to light duty and immediately upon his return, Alexander Waverly summoned him to his office.

"How is the shoulder doing young man?" the Old Man asked as Illya seated himself at the conference table.

He smiled, thinking that he was no longer that young man that was recruited to U.N.C.L.E. so long ago, but it was amusing the Waverly still thought of him that way.

"I am fine sir, and ready to return to the field."

"Mr. Kuryakin that is the sort of enthusiasm I like to hear from my agents but I think your return to active duty might have to be delayed just a while longer. We just received this."

He sent a small white envelope round on the table. Illya picked it up and slipped the paper from it, noticing a return label marked USCIS, the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services. He read the document, then smiled as it was a "Notice of Naturalization Oath Ceremony."

He was to report to the local immigration office in two days time for his swearing in ceremony to become a United States Citizen.

"Congratulations." Waverly walked over to him, offering his hand. "This was handled rather expeditiously and I suspect Bill Klein may have had something to do with it."

Illya shook it gratefully, as the Old Man wasn't known for such overt gestures.

"To think that young green agent that I met so long ago in the Kremlin could have come as far as you have. I am very proud of you."

"Thank you Mr. Waverly for all the confidence you have given me."

.

The day finally arrived and Illya Kuryakin accompanied by his wife, and Napoleon Solo, gathered with nearly two dozen other people who were also being sworn in as new citizens.

He was dressed in a grey suit with a red tie, having decided his usual black was too somber for this long awaited occasion. And when the moment came, he stood straight with his chin held high, raising his right hand as he recited the Oath of Allegiance.

"I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty, of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen; that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same...and that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; so help me God."

He breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. Illya Kuryakin the son Nickolaí Alexaevich and Tatatyana Ivanova was now a citizen of the United States of America. He was filled with pride as he was hugged by his wife Elliott and then shook hands with his friend and partner, who acted as his sponsor.

The Russian was surprised that once it was over, he actually felt like a different man. It was if a great and heavy weight had just been lifted from his shoulders and he could suddenly breathe freely. Free...freedom. It was now his in the truest sense of the word. He was free.

If he wanted to quit UNCLE tomorrow, he was free to do so with out fear of repercussion and being deported back to the Soviet Union since the contractual agreement between the two countries was no longer binding. The GRU could no longer recall him, the KGB would most likely have to leave him alone, as repatriation was no longer an option and might create an international incident.

Both Federal and State law enforcement would no longer torment him, unless he engaged in criminal activities of course. He was an American now. He could vote...would vote. It was his right and duty to do so. His head was suddenly swimming with the reality of it all.

He had done this for his family so that he too was an American as they were and he could no longer be taken away from them by the whim of his former government. Yet feeling as he did, he realized what he had done was after all, for himself as well.

He was no longer a representative of the Soviet Union and that meant they technically no longer had their charter with UNCLE. Though Waverly informed him, the agreement would still be intact as long as the Soviets sent another representative and thereby maintaining their agreement with the organization. So eventually, there would be another Russian within the walls of U.N.C.L.E. and that was something that Illya would look forward to.

They left the Immigration bureau, heading back to the Kuryakin house for a small party that Elliott had organized even at short notice. Olga and Bella were there supervising all the food, the guests and children.

As Illya, his wife and partner came in the front door , he was greeted to a rousing round of applause by April, Mark, George Dennell, Wanda, Lisa, Heather, Tillie, her husband John Rhys, and Mr. Waverly, along with many other people who had worked with him, or whose lives he had touched. Father Stashinski and his old friend Claire from the Bowery Mission were there as well.

Champagne was poured and toasts made to America's newest citizen and there were a lot of speeches, celebrating, picture taking, backslapping, handshaking and hugging.

The doorbell rang and Elliott answered it, seeing two people at the door that she didn't know and instinctively her hand went to her special hidden at her back. Illya walked up behind her, stopping her from drawing it.

"No Annushka...this is most certainly a surprise," he grinned. "That is my cousin Anastasiya and Napoleon's brother Hannibal.

Illya and his cousin embraced and she was introduced to Elliott and then came the introduction of Napoleon's mysterious brother.

"I hope you do not mind cousin, but I invited Hannibal to accompany me?"

Illya hesitated, looking warily at the younger Solo. "No I suppose not...welcome to my home. Hannibal, Napoleon is here and I hope you will make time to have achat with him?" He said, alluding mysteriously to the secret he had kept for Hannibal up until now.

Elliott looked at her husband suspiciously, his tone implying something was going on, and supposed that would be a talk for later.

Twenty minutes passed and then the door bell rang again, this time Elliott was not pleased at all when she saw who it was.

Bill Klein stood in the vestibule and again Illya came up behind his wife, opening the door to their home when she would not.

"Hello Bill," Illya said. "What may I do for you?"

"I know this is rather rude of me, since I wasn't invited, though I'm actually on official, and a little unofficial business." Klein waved his hand and suddenly two small boys, a blond and brunette appeared from behind him." I'd like you to meet my boys Charlie and Tommy. Boys this is Mr. and Mrs. Kuryakin."

"Hello," Illya smiled at the children," please welcome to my home, come in."

Elliott was angry but controlled herself, making a face at her husband as Klein and his children walked past them down the hallway."

"Stoi, " he whispered, speaking to her in Russian," he and I have come to an understanding and I will leave it at that. Please Annushka do not be upset. After all the man's children are here."

Elliott just shook her head, resigning herself to have a talk about this as well.

Napoleon and Waverly were surprised at Klein's appearance, but like the men from U.N.C.L.E. that they were; they kept silent and observed the situation, saying nothing.

Charlie and Tommy Klein were shown to the kitchen and introduced to Demya, Lala, the Solo twins as well and the children of John and Tillie Rhys.

Everyone was gathered between the dining and living rooms and Klein cleared his throat to get their attention. "Excuse me all, I have some official business to conduct here. Illya if you could please join me?

He stepped up beside the man, not sure of what was going on.

"Illya Kuryakin, firstly I'd like to give you this...your American passport." Klein passed the small green booklet to Illya's hand, " and secondly I have here in my hand a citation from the President of the United States Lyndon B. Johnson, and am hereby instructed to award to you the Presidential Medal of Freedom in recognition of your meritorious contribution to the security and national interests of the United States, and world peace."

"Normally this would be awarded at the White House in July, but due to the nature of your employment and the need for secrecy...well, here we are."

Klein held open a blue velvet case, displaying a medal in the form of a golden star with white enamel, an a red enamel pentagon behind it; the central disc bore thirteen gold stars on a blue enamel background, within that a golden ring and a pair of golden American Bald Eagles with spread wings standing between the points of the star.

Illya was speechless as Klein offered his hand to him. "Congratulations, you are going to make one hell of an American sir and I am honored to be your friend if you'll have me as one, but only first if I have your forgivness?"

"Yes Bill, you have it and thank you." Illya smiled shyly.

Most people there were taken back by that, knowing the dislike the two men had for each other, but now there seemed to be a new found sense of respect between them.

"Bravo!" Napoleon called out, as he stood next to his brother and Anastasiya.

"Speech!"

"Oi mate, right-o speech!" Mark Slate seconded the request.

Illya gathered his thoughts for a moment, then he cleared his throat as the room became hushed.

"You all know that I am not one for public displays, other than the explosive kind." He was interrupted by a bit of laughter. "Today however, I will make an exception. Firstly let me say that I am grateful that you have come to share this day with me...I have waited a long time for it to happen. Secondly I am honored and humbled by this award, and feel I am undeserving of it as such, as I am simply a man who has endeavored to just do his job."

"Hey, no one ever gave me a medal, if you don't want it I'll take it!" Napoleon heckled him.

Illya laughed at that..."No I think I will hold onto it for now thank you!"

Then he paused again.

"I have thought much about what it has meant to become an American, and I suppose having once lived in a place where freedom was not treated as a right but as a rare privilege for only a few, I hold my new found freedom as something most precious."

"There are those among you that may take your freedoms for granted; I suppose because you have never had them withheld from you. But trust me when I say, this country is one of the greatest on this earth for the freedom that it's people can enjoy."

"The words of your...our former President, Franklin Roosevelt said it best about the freedoms that we possess and should not only treasure but guard with our very lives. He proposed four fundamental freedoms that people everywhere in the world should enjoy, and would that it was only so."

"The first was freedom of speech and expression—everywhere in the world. The second, freedom to worship God in one's own way—everywhere in the world. The third was freedom from want—meaning that economic understandings which would secure to every nation a healthy peacetime life for its inhabitants—everywhere in the world. The fourth was freedom from fear—referring a world-wide reduction of armaments to such a point that no nation would be in a position to commit an act of physical aggression against any neighbor—anywhere in the world." **

Illya looked at Klein as he said that. "It is my job...our job to see that these four freedoms shine bright, for all the world. It has been and is my honor to fight for them, and I will do so to my dying breath."

.

Three months later Illya was sitting in his office, typing out his half of a mission report, having just returned from a quick assignment in Holland with Napoleon. His partner was still trying to wrap his head around the confession that his brother had finally dropped on him only a few weeks ago and not at the citizenship party with Hannibal having finally revealed that he worked for the C.I.A.

Illya was still having his own issues with Hannibal Solo, as apparently he had begun dating Anastasiya after she did not return to Finland. She having miraculously acquired a work visa that he suspected Hannibal had arranged for her, and now she was working as a surgeon at Johns Hopkins in Maryland.

He wasn't quite sure if he was happy about the relationship between the two and decided that he would to have some discussions with the younger Solo regarding his intentions towards his cousin.

There was a knock a the door, and their latest secretary Betty entered carrying a sealed manila folder.

"Mr. Kuryakin this was delivered for you by courier from Langely sir."

"Thank you and please call me Illya?" He took the sealed envelope, slicing the end of it with a letter opener.

It was a notification from Bill Klein informing him that Vasily Krantrishvili had committed suicide after the U.S. Government had concluded that his services would no longer be needed. Apparently what he had to offer them was not as of much use as what he had lead them to believe it would be.

Klein said they were taken completely off guard when Vasily hung himself in his residence and were at a loss as to why he had done it as he had been offered asylum, regardless of his useless status to the U.S. government.

There was one single question scrawled in red ink by Klein at the bottom of the paper...

"Do you know why?"

Illya smiled, knowing he would never give Bill Klein that answer.

It was surely his threat against Vasily the bully that had caused him take his own life, and that gave Illya a sense of satisfaction knowing the one who had caused so much pain was now gone.

His death signaled the culmination of a life of suffering and sadness that had surrounded Illya Nickovich Kuryakin for too long and this now this final act of Vasily's permitted him to at last close those chapters of his life at last. He sighed, feeling it was the last of many burdens lifted from his shoulders.

.

That night when he returned home with Elliott, it was with a light heart. They ate supper; saw the children off to bed and then Illya turned the lights down low in the living room. He lit some candles and turned on the phonograph, then drew his wife into his arms, holding her closely and they slowly danced together.

Napoleon pulled up alongside the curb, parking his car in front of the Kuryakin home with the intention having a talk with his partner about Hannibal, wanting some questions answered that had been bothering him after his brother told him of his work with the C.I.A. Things that he suspected his partner knew about and had been holding out on him.

He opened the wrought iron gate, walking toward the steps and that was when he heard it, the muffled strains of Unchained Melody coming from within the house.

"Oh my love, my darling I've hungered for your touch A long lonely time,

And time goes by so slowly And time can do so much, Are you still mine?

I need your love, I need your love God speed your love to me.

Lonely rivers flow to the sea, to the sea, To the open arms of the sea, yeah!

Lonely rivers sigh "wait for me, wait for me" I'll be coming home, Wait for me.

Oh my love, my darling I've hungered, Hungered for your touch A long lonely time,

And time goes by so slowly And time can do so much,Are you still mine?

I need your love, I need your love God speed your love to me."

Napoleon stood there listening, and could see their profiles through the curtains. Illya and a now obviously pregnant Elliott were there together in the living room,dancing in the dark. He smiled, supposing that his questions could wait for another time.

Then he slipped back into his car, driving off through a city filled with the neon and twinkling lights that pushed back the night, yet still hid things within the shadows...

.

завершенный.~ Finis

.

* Alexander Putkin "The Memorial"

** excerpted from the State of the Union Address to Congress, January 6, 1941

Author's note: Special thanks to Rosywonder for her help, great photographs, suggestions and friendship.


End file.
